


you have come to love what you will always fear

by Dialux



Series: words for the lost, the captive beautiful, the wives, those less fortunate than we [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ....families of choice formed out of actual family only nobody knows it, Brother-Sister Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Defeating Morgoth Through Quasi-Dragon Skills, Fake Marriage, Families of Choice, Feanor Ruins The World And Saves It, Gen, How To Save The World While Being Truly Irredeemably Annoying, In Which Maglor Is Confused And Mistakes Confusion For Hatred, POV Outsider, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Uncle-Niece Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weaving, celegorm has one answer to a problem and it's marriage, everyone hates everyone else but wait it's FUNNY, i.e. throwing the enemies (future) weapons against them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28264887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: You can save the world,says Vairë quietly.You can save the world, my daughter. Are you brave enough to reach for it?[Time travel AU, featuring a furious Finduilas, a bitter Celegorm, and a number of deeply confused Fëanorians.]
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Finduilas Faelivrin, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Finduilas Faelivrin
Series: words for the lost, the captive beautiful, the wives, those less fortunate than we [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101053
Comments: 93
Kudos: 147





	1. let her compose what manhood’s hand cannot destroy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the one relationship I'm interested in out of the whole Nargothrond mess, so pls do whatever psychological analysis you want from _that._
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Finduilas has been protected all her life.

It is her role in her family: her father has lost so much, he who was most beloved by the father left in Aman, he who has lost brothers and a wife in one battle, he who lost the last brother scarce years later. Finduilas knows his heartbreak and his fear; she is all that he has left to the world. She does not need to be protected- Finduilas is swift and strong, even if she is untrained in the arts of war- but she lets him, because her father needs someone to protect in this world, and there is nobody left for him to shield.

He dies before her. 

That’s the only kindness that Finduilas can scavenge up now, in this bloody fire-torn land. The only scraps of kindness that she can think of now. 

Orodreth shall never see her like this. 

It’s what Finduilas prays to, pinned to a tree, blood seeping out too slowly, eyes blurred and barely able to see the shining stars above:  _ Sweet Elbereth, do not show him this end. I shall join him soon enough. I shall give everything you ever ask, but do not let my father see  _ how  _ I have ended-  _

She blinks, and darkness claims her. It is cold, but not uncomfortable. Finduilas has grown used to the cold anyhow; Nargothrond had always been colder than she enjoyed, though she hadn’t dared to complain to anyone. She wonders if this is going to be her future forever-more. Compared to the agony it does not seem like much, but she thinks that she will grow bored of it sooner or later.

_ Finduilas Faelivrin,  _ says a voice that she doesn’t recognize.  _ Alyafairë, Fair-spirit of Nargothrond. Finduilas, Tree-pierced Elf of Beleriand. I have watched you for a long time. _

_ Who are you?  _ asks Finduilas.  _ Am I not in Mandos’ Halls? _

_ You are, and you are not.  _

_ I don’t understand. _

_ Much pain have you suffered,  _ the voice continues.  _ Much loss. And still upon your death, you think not of anyone but your father.  _

_ Who are you?  _ asks Finduilas again.

_ The Vala whom you pray to every time you take up thread and needle. The Vala who has watched over you since you chose to become an embroideress.  _

_ Lady Vairë,  _ whispers Finduilas. She would kneel, but she doesn’t have a body. Instead, she lowers her voice.  _ Oh, my lady. You’ve watched over me? _

_ Others do not wish to,  _ says Vairë calmly.  _ Varda has never cared much to watch over her worshippers- and she has so many that she could not, even if she wished! Manwë and Ulmo heed those who pray to them, but not their worshippers. But Aulë chooses to watch over those he loves personally, and so does Yavanna, and so do I. _

_ I don’t understand,  _ she says again.

_ You are in my halls, not my husband’s,  _ Vairë tells her.  _ I’ve some power over death for the love that he bears for me.  _

_ Because of my mastery? _

Vairë does not laugh, but there’s a sense of amusement that warms Finduilas. Then out of the darkness something coalesces, and out of that brightness a being appears: Vairë, who has dark skin, and hair so thickly braided with colorful strands of cotton and silk that the actual color of it is indistinguishable. She wears a hundred shawls, each bearing images of immense beauty, each image constantly flickering and winking out to be replaced by another.

_ My home is the deepest depths of my husband’s halls. Which is why you are here- you are in his halls, but also within my own.  _ She pauses, briefly, before continuing.  _ Fëanáro, King of the Noldor, is within my home as well.  _

_ He had no care for weaving! _

_ No,  _ agrees Vairë.  _ But he loved his mother very dearly, and Míriel Serinde was the greatest embroideress the Eldar shall ever have.  _

_ I don’t- why does that matter? To me? _

_ Because Fëanáro cannot leave things well alone,  _ says Vairë quietly.  _ He has never been capable of it.  _

_ What do you mean? _

_ I weave tapestries of things that have been and are happening.  _ Vairë adjusts her shawls, and her fingers- long and slender- seem to tremble, though Finduilas thinks that could be her imagination.  _ Not things that are yet to happen. Never has my vision grown so great. But Fëanáro has managed it: a thread that writes of what is to come. A thread that can unmake what has already happened. And a thread that changes what is happening. _

_ It’s impossible,  _ breathes Finduilas.

But if anyone could do it, it would be Fëanor, would it not? The finest smith the Noldor have ever known. Of course he could do it.

_ I have seen what is to come,  _ whispers Vairë.  _ The world will drown, if it remains upon this path. Heed me, Finduilas Faelivrin: this cannot continue. It must stop. _

_ Stop? _

_ Yes. Stop. _

_ I don’t  _ understand, says Finduilas.

Vairë reaches out and brushes a long finger over Finduilas’ fëa, soft as a thread of silk.  _ As soon as my husband knows you are here, you shall belong. But there is a choice before you, Finduilas Faelivrin: to use the threads that your kinsman has spun.  _

_ To- to see what’s to come? _

_ To unmake what has happened,  _ corrects Vairë.  _ I shall send you back, with Fëanáro’s threads- to the time of your choice. It will not be easy. It will be very painful. But you must weave, sweet child, to use these; and so it must be a weaver. There are not many of your skill that I can ask. _

_ And save what? Lady Vairë- I cannot- this doesn’t make any sense!  _ Finduilas feels her own fear mixing with the confusion.  _ Please! _

_ You can save the world,  _ says Vairë quietly.  _ You can save the world, my daughter. Are you brave enough to reach for it? _

_ I… don’t know. I cannot even- fight! I  _ didn’t _ fight! Not even when they pinned me to a  _ tree,  _ when I was  _ dying-

_ This world does not need any more fighters, Alyafairë of Nargothrond.  _ Vairë’s hand cups Finduilas, and is so gentle that Finduilas wants to cry.  _ Would  _ cry, if not for the fact that she has no body.  _ It needs weavers.  _

…

“The thread that can send you back is woven through this tapestry,” Vairë tells her. Finduilas nods, peering at it: the tapestry is beautiful. Made of shining, jewel-toned colors that brighten the entire cloth. “You will be the first to touch it, and the only one to touch it. The other two threads- one to tell the future, and one to unmake the present- shall be as bands on your wrists, and shine as gold and silver to everyone else.”

Finduilas blinks, and then, out of nowhere, an elleth appears before her. She wears a , but her fëa shines so bright that the body is almost invisible.

“Daughter,” she says, gentle and warm.

It has been so long since-

“Mother?” asks Finduilas, trembling.

“No,” she says. “I was never mother to any but one. But you are the daughter of my craft, the only one of my husband’s people to follow me in the love of my hands. And that makes you my daughter as well.”

Finduilas swallows as she names her. “Míriel Serinde.”

“Yes.” She reaches out and touches Finduilas’ belly, where the spear pierced her. Finduilas struggles not to shiver. “I wove the tapestry of your death.”

“You- have my gratitude?”

“Be careful,” says Míriel. “Be careful, and be swift, and be creative.”

The three most important traits of any weaver. 

Finduilas nods, mouth dry.

“You bear my son’s creations,” Míriel continues, looping golden thread on Finduilas’ left wrist. “I fought for him to come here, did you know that? Because he cannot bear to be without craft. It is as a pain to me, to not weave: but I did it for long, long years; until my lady’s husband chose to let my son join me here, where we can make things just as much as recover.” She ties it off and moves to the right wrist, where she starts wrapping silver thread. “I fought for you, too, to do this. But- tell me- what kind of a mother lets her daughter go into danger without gifts? Take this,  _ maiel.”  _ She wraps a shawl around Finduilas’ shoulders, a sweet, soft scarlet, and winks when she’s just out of Vairë’s sight. “Take this, my girl, and let your fingers fly!”

Vairë nods. “Touch the tapestry,” she commands. “When you are ready.”

…

Finduilas  _ flies. _

…

She is torn apart and put together. Shredded to pieces and sewn back up. The pain is worse by far than the spear. Finduilas feels something snap and snarl, suddenly: something is wrong. It should not be- she does not  _ recognize  _ anything- 

Something shines past her, too quick for her to catch. 

Then something as well, glittering as obsidian in firelight, too dark for her to catch.

Then something comes, bright even through the pain, as stars shone even when Finduilas was pinned to the tree. 

Finduilas does not think; she reaches out and seizes it in her hands. It blazes and blisters her palms, but Finduilas cannot let go. She’s so  _ tired  _ of letting things go, she of the weaver hands and the swift fingers.

There are still images spinning by her, and the whirling, shining silver fëa in her hands twists-  _ twists- _

Grabs-

Holds-

Everything dark becomes as light.

…

Finduilas wakes up falling.

She screams, writhing in the air, clutching for something-  _ something- _

And then she lands, and it’s… on a soft body?

A soft body that’s wheezing. 

Finduilas scrambles up, accidentally elbowing the body- which wheezes harder- and drags herself backwards, by her elbows because there’s apparently no other part of her body that’s working. When she’s off that person, she collapses backwards, staring breathlessly up at the sky.

“What  _ fucking  _ happened?”

_ No. _

“Who the  _ fuck-  _ I am so fucking  _ done  _ with all of this- what made-  _ who  _ in all of  _ fucking  _ Arda decide-”

_ No.  _ Finduilas tries not to whimper.  _ No. This is not happening to me. It was all a very bad dream. _

Something is kicked, and the dirt showers over Finduilas’ face. She flinches, hard, twitching upright, and he finally turns to her. 

His face, unscarred and bright once more, goes slack in shock. Finduilas winces. 

_ “Finduilas?”  _ he asks.

“Hi, Uncle Celegorm,” says Finduilas, in a small voice.

…

Celegorm swears for such a long time that Finduilas drops back to lay on the earth, staring up at the sky. It’s when the sky goes silver- it looks properly silver, here, like molten metal- that he finally winds down.

“Explain,” he says.

“If there was something to explain I would,” Finduilas replies. She doesn’t bother sitting up. “What I don’t understand is what you’re doing here.”

“Do I look like  _ I  _ understand? Last thing I knew was Valar-bedamned Dior sticking a sword up my gut, then I’m here! Under the Trees!”

“Is that where we are?” asks Finduilas curiously. “Under the Trees?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Dior- as in Luthien’s child?” Finduilas blinks up at him. “And how’d he kill you?  _ Why’d  _ he kill you?”

“Don’t fucking change the subject!”

“Don’t yell at me,” snaps Finduilas, rolling upright, though she doesn’t get to her feet either. “I’m here because- because- well. Vairë sent me. Your father made some  _ thing.  _ I think- I think I caught you when I was going backward. By mistake? I don’t know-”

“-you keep  _ saying  _ that-”

“-I died,” says Finduilas, and Celegorm stops. “I died when Morgoth came to Nargothrond. And Vairë took me to her home, inside Namo’s halls. She gave me these.”

Celegorm stares at the wrists she’s holding up, gleaming gold and silver. “She put you in chains?”

“It’s your father’s creation.”

“I can’t believe he’d make chains of-”

“They’re not chains,” says Finduilas impatiently. “They’re thread. Special thread. Fëanor crafted three things: a thread to change the past, a thread to see the future, a thread to unmake the present. The thread to change the past brought me- and you- here. The other two are… these. I can undo them at any time.”

“Then undo them,” says Celegorm. “I’m done. I’m through with this.”

“Through with- what?”

“With trying to  _ save the fucking world.” _

Finduilas eyes him warily. Celegorm’s not as bad as his brother; Curufin’s  _ unpredictable,  _ and more vicious by far. Celegorm enjoys hunting and fighting, and Finduilas- for all that she knows her father’s opinion of both brothers- thinks that Celegorm searches for enemies when he doesn’t have anyone in front of him giving a good enough fight, not that he’s actually that paranoid. According to her father, he’d once been far easier to get along with in Aman, before taking the Oath, before Fëanor went insane. But the person in front of Finduilas has, apparently, attacked  _ Doriath,  _ and obviously died in the attempt, and- she suspects- lost a few of his brothers in the doing.

He’s a lot more dangerous than the uncle that Finduilas remembers, and that uncle had been plenty dangerous enough.

“It’s your brothers,” says Finduilas. She pauses, thinks about it, then says, “It’s your jewels as well.”

“You haven’t said why I’m  _ here,”  _ snarls Celegorm, spinning away then pacing back like a caged animal. “In my younger body. If you’re in your old one-”

“I’ll explain that bit,” says Finduilas wearily. Slowly, she gets up. Peers up at the stars, which are barely visible with the Trees shining so brightly. “It’s simple: one fëa for one . Always. Forever. So… your old fëa, the one that hasn’t left Aman, it’s been subsumed. Or so I assume. And placed into the casing of this . Vairë mentioned something about blades and sheaths and all, but she wasn’t clear; I don’t think she knew herself what would happen if I took someone back with me.”

Celegorm stares at her. “Enough of this,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re planning or why, but I’m not going to- to just let you-”

“-do what?” asks Finduilas. “I haven’t decided myself.”

When she starts walking away, though, he follows her, still bristly as a porcupine and about as good of a conversationalist. Finduilas lets it happen for a long time, past the time that the sky goes all gold and shining instead of the slightly dimmer silver, before finally stopping.

“Why are you following me?”

“Because I’m not going to-” he pinches his voice off, then glares at her. “The woods here are safer than near Nargothrond, but they aren’t  _ safe.” _

“Safe,” repeats Finduilas. “Listen. Uncle Celegorm. I don’t need you to- to protect me. I’m not here for-”

“So you’d prefer for me to go back to Formenos?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t  _ know!” _

Then, quite unable to stop herself, she starts to cry.

Celegorm looks horrified, and more than a little uncomfortable. “I cannot-” he starts, sharply, before gentling his voice. “Finduilas. Sit down.”

“I-”

“Sit  _ down.”  _ For all that his voice is gentle, it doesn’t brook defiance either, and Finduilas finds herself obeying with sullen irritation. When they’re both seated, he hands her a leaf. “Chew on it.”

Finduilas stares at him incredulously. “What?”

“Caranthir used to boil it for tea: he told me it had some calming properties.”

_ If anyone had reason to know it, it’d be him. _

“You know that boiling things changes their  _ properties,  _ don’t you?” asks Finduilas, but she still takes it and puts it in her mouth.

It’s bitter. Really,  _ really  _ bitter. But it does shock her out of the overwhelming fear from before enough that Finduilas can focus. 

“We’re in Aman,” he says, when it becomes clear that Finduilas isn’t going to be the first to speak. “I cannot believe  _ that  _ of itself. We shall have to leave these trees soon enough if you don't want to be caught by Orome's hunters."

"And go where?" asks Finduilas tiredly.

"I'd like to return home, I think," says Celegorm. At her blank face, he lifts his brows. “Formenos.” Finduilas can’t quite keep the shudder off of her shoulders. Celegorm sees it; his face goes taut. “It wasn’t always what Morgoth made it. Or what Orodreth went around saying it was.”

“My father never said anything to me about it,” says Finduilas evenly. 

It’s the truth. Orodreth rarely spoke about Aman. What Finduilas has learned is from the whispers of other courtiers and innuendos from Celegorm’s own mouth. Neither of which are reliable, but they’re all the reference that she currently has.

And anyhow: Finduilas doesn’t want to meet Fëanor.

He’ll recognize her bracelets. He’ll recognize his own work, surely, and then everything will be lost. Finduilas has gotten by this far by being forgotten. The one time she tried to make herself a story, tried to get the light shining on her, she got dragged out of her own home by a dragon and a spear shoved through her belly.

No. This will have to be done away from Fëanor.

“What do you know of Valinor?” asks Celegorm suspiciously.

Finduilas tries not to grimace. “Not much.”

“Vairë didn’t tell you anything?”

“I had other questions on my mind,” she snaps. “But I was warned not to- to bring attention upon myself. These bracelets are too much: they’ll be noticed. They’ll change history on their own if everyone knows about them. It’s why Vairë chose someone who went… unnoticed, to bear this burden.”

For a moment, Celegorm says nothing. Then he closes his eyes. “You need help.”

“Not from you.”

“Finduilas,” he says, and she shivers at the hard tone of his voice: it sounds so similar to when he’d stood in front of Nargothrond and demanded they abandon Uncle Finrod, all thunder and barely-leashed, bone-deep fury. “You don’t have many other allies to choose from.”

Finduilas swallows, hard. The bitter leaf still taints her mouth; she cannot untaste it. 

“I don’t want it to be you,” she says, finally, and lifts her head to look at him. If she must- if this is necessary- then Finduilas will not pretend to more affection for her bloodthirsty uncle than she has. “There’s only three things in this world I loathe more than you. Uncle  _ Curufin  _ would be better.”

“Do I frighten you?” he asks, smiling.

“Yes,” says Finduilas bluntly. 

“Good.”

“But I hate you more,” she finishes. “Nargothrond fell, in part because of you. I’m sick of it: destruction after destruction. I’m a  _ weaver,  _ and I can’t- I cannot abide it. I won’t! You and your brothers- all that you do is cruel! All of it! I am a weaver, and I’ve never held swords in such reverence as you. I never will. I cannot understand it. I cannot abide it!”

The gleam in his eyes fades into something dimmer and more dangerous. But Finduilas doesn’t care. She’s not hysterical- not yet- but her heart throbs in her chest, and she wants- 

She wants-

She wants her  _ mother,  _ dead for such long years. She wants her father, who would hold her tight and offer to shoulder all her burdens. She wants her uncle, who’d laugh at her and drag her forward, gold hair gleaming like the sun. She wants- she wants all of them, her friends in Nargothrond, her family that she never knew well enough, her people that she failed so egregiously.

His hand touches her shoulder, and Finduilas shies away, flinching hard enough to crumble onto the earth.

“I’d forgotten what it feels to live freely,” says Celegorm, finally, standing some distance away from her. His voice is strange; low, and rough, and faintly hesitant. “We haven’t sworn the oath yet. I’d forgotten how heavy it felt when we weren’t under it.”

“Is that an excuse?” asks Finduilas scornfully.

Celegorm laughs. It would be a beautiful sound if not for the bitterness threaded through it.

“I am not what I was,” he says, voice dream-like, blurred at the edges. “Hate me if you wish. But you and I both know that you cannot do this alone.”

_ A thread cannot weave a whole tapestry. _

Her heart hurts.

It is a betrayal, isn’t it? A betrayal of her father, of her true uncle, of her family in Doriath, too. Celegorm the Kinslayer: the man who stood in front of her people and would have her father silenced if it aided his ambitions.

But Finrod had known who Celegorm and Curufin were, and he’d welcomed them into the home he’d carved with his hands. Finduilas remembers how she’d once asked him  _ why  _ he’d bothered to do that, and he’d frowned thoughtfully, and he’d said, very gently,  _ Mercy is not something I have ever regretted. _

She hadn’t gotten the chance to ask him if that remained true by the end of it all, but Finduilas thinks she knows the answer.

“What can you help me with?” she asks.

Celegorm eyes her. “If we can come up with a good story, I’ll be able to… ensure nobody asks questions.”

“You’ve figured out a story, haven’t you,” says Finduilas slowly.

“Yes.”

“Uncle Cele-”

“You’ll need to stop calling me that.”

“Tyelkormo, then,” she snaps. “What  _ story?” _

“Marriage.”

Finduilas stares at him, and then laughs. 


	2. in the shape of nothing that has existed before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” says Celegorm impatiently. “You can all see it, can’t you?”
> 
> There’s a long pause, and then Curufin says, sounding like he’s holding back laughter, “Is that a marriage bond in your fëa, Tyelko?”

“Between you and me? I’d no idea you were so desperate!”

“It’s a good idea.”

“I’m not marrying you,” she says, still laughing.  _ “I’m  _ not that desperate.”

“I don’t want to,” says Celegorm, flush creeping over his scarless cheeks. “But it’s the most reasonable idea. And it’ll keep people from noticing your bracelets if we make up something more interesting about you.”

“I am not  _ marrying  _ you!”

“Then we don’t,” says Celegorm loudly. “But we pretend that we have! Believe me, I don’t want to marry you either!”

“Good,” says Finduilas crisply, feeling the faintest bit calmer. “Can we pretend? Is that even- possible?”

Celegorm eyes her. “A sworn bond can mimic it. Blood- a vow- a few words-”

“-no vows,” says Finduilas, and Celegorm falls silent as if she’s struck him.

“Fine. No vows.”

“It’ll work?”

“I’ll make it work.”

Finduilas feels the familiar prick of guilt: her father, her loyalties to him. But if this works then he’ll never know what Finduilas has done. And this isn’t so much as an alliance with Celegorm as it is a desperate binding, hewn between the only two people who remember the world as it was.

“Very well,” she says softly, and holds out her hand for a knife that she can slash across it. “Let us bond, Tyelkormo of Formenos.”

“What do I call you?” he asks, pausing. “Finduilas is a- Sindarin name.”

“Alyafairë,” says Finduilas gently. “My ataressë. It is from Quenya.”

“Orodreth named you in Quenya?”

“Father wished me named Alfirin,” she says. “My mother insisted otherwise: that I was the daughter of a Noldor prince, and no Sindarin king would keep me from it.”

“It is not well-known.”

“No,” says Finduilas, and draws the knife down her hand, barely flinching from the bright, hot pain. “No, it is not.”

…

The bond blooms in their mind like a cloud of silver. Finduilas shrinks from it: no matter how terrible the things she’s had done to her, they have none of them stolen into her mind like this. And Celegorm does not help matters; he is a wild thing, something unbounded and moonlit and savage. Peace is not in him. 

_ A wolf will attack if it scents weakness. _

_ So then: I must not be weak. _

Finduilas lets the cloud roll through her. She embraces it. Swallows it whole. 

When she opens her eyes, Celegorm is staring at her.

“Come,” he says, after a long silence. “We must go to Formenos.”

Finduilas nods and rises.

…

(“Who are the other three?”

“Hm?”

“Who are the other three you hate more than me?”

“They don’t matter now,” says Finduilas, and turns away.)

…

Formenos is grand. No: Formenos is  _ beautiful,  _ in the manner that only the true Noldor can manage; all floating towers and forbidding stone, scrubbed stone and shining, perfect edges.

“Don’t speak until Father speaks to you,” says Celegorm lowly.

Finduilas nods. And then they’re inside: and she can see the surprise of all the people, few though they are, at seeing an elleth walking behind their lord. Then she sees Maedhros, and something in her quails, for here she can see how he must have been at the First Kinslaying, red-haired and gleaming and fell as hellfire. And there- there is Maglor! Maglor with the voice more dangerous than a thousand swords! And Carnistir, and the Ambarussa, and then  _ Curufin,  _ who’s both beautiful and terrifying right now, and there is- there is-

“Grandfather,” says Celegorm, just barely a whisper, right before he drops to his knees.

Finduilas follows. She’s glad for it: her limbs feel strangely watery, thinking of meeting Finwë himself, Finwë who began this whole venture, Finwë the great and the grand.

“Oh, get up Turkafinwë,” says another voice, and she sneaks a look to the side to see that- yes, this must be Fëanor. Or Fëanáro, is they call him now. “Who have you brought with you now?”

“Her name is Alyafairë, Father,” says Celegorm evenly. “She has come here to stay.”

“Stay,” repeats Maedhros.

Celegorm rises and returns to her, holding out a hand. Finduilas hides her grimace as best she can; she doesn’t want to touch him. She doesn’t think she can bear it. Not remembering those orcs. Not remembering how terribly Celegorm’s face had twisted with rage, that-

_ Pay attention,  _ he growls to her in the privacy of their mind.

She snaps back to the present. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” says Maedhros archly.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” says Celegorm impatiently. “You can all see it, can’t you?”

There’s a long pause, and then Curufin says, sounding like he’s holding back laughter, “Is that a marriage bond in your fëa, Tyelko?”

“Yes,” says Celegorm simply.

Nobody seems to know how to respond. Finduilas thinks, faintly, that it might not have been a good idea to take Celegorm’s lead on this.  _ Everyone  _ seems to be some shade of horrified, which is not a good way to begin any relationship.

_ Even if I don’t particularly want your goodwill. _

“I’ve never heard of her,” says Fëanor, finally.

“That’s your problem,” replies Celegorm, tossing his head. “But it’s a quick thing, I’ll grant you that. I hope you’ll welcome her to the family.”

“Turkafinwë,” says Fëanor, voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. “Explain-”

“We met,” says Finduilas, forcing her voice out through a dry throat. “It was- very quick. We saw each other and just- knew. Knew that we had to- bond.” She turns to look at him, and, very gingerly, places her hand on his arm. “Knew that we had to wed.”

Celegorm grins at her, and it looks quite demonic. “We’ll be in my chambers if you want to talk.”

And then he grabs her and  _ runs. _

…

In his chambers, Celegorm looks… bad. 

It had been brazeness, then, that led him to confront his family so openly, and not wisdom. Certainly he hadn’t been ready to see them, these brothers that are whole and beautiful; this father he honors so greatly; this grandfather they have eulogized into nigh-godhood. Finduilas watches him: he’s got his teeth gritted hard enough to probably break his jaw, and he’s pacing back and forth on the carpet, making very low, growling sounds. She retreats to the bed, where she pulls her feet under her and decides to let him have his breakdown in peace.

It isn’t that she doesn’t know the losses that the Fëanorians have suffered. She rather thinks that she’ll have a similar reaction if she ever sees Uncle Finrod again, nevermind her own father. But Finduilas doesn’t  _ know  _ Celegorm, and certainly not well enough for her to offer him comfort or peace.

The only thing she can offer him is solitude.

It’s almost morning before Celegorm finally relaxes enough to sit down.

“I didn’t expect that,” he says roughly.

“Your father and grandfather,” says Finduilas quietly. “I hadn’t considered seeing them either.”

“You haven’t seen Nelyo much either, have you?”

“He’s  _ very  _ handsome.”

“Don’t go falling in love with him,” Celegorm warns her, words low enough to itch up her spine. Before, Finduilas might have ignored her own discomfort; now, spitted and spited, she lets the anger rise up her throat. “He’s taken.”

“I don’t need you to tell me not to fall in love,” says Finduilas. “And especially not with one of  _ you.” _

“Yes, I heard stories. Who was it? Túrin? The poor mortal man you gave your heart to- and the elf you-”

“-it must be galling,” says Finduilas, freezingly, “to have both the elleth you ever cared for in that manner to fall in love with men. What does it say about you, that we run away as far as possible?”

Celegorm stares at her, and then Finduilas rises to her feet, heart beating fast enough that she feels sick.

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Don’t talk about  _ him,  _ then!”

“I,” says Celegorm, and Finduilas says, before he can finish, “I need some air,” and she walks out, stumbling, a little, but of all things Finduilas knows how to climb  _ up, _ and it takes her very little time to burst out into a tower, where she stands: not quite weeping, but not quite normal either. 

Her breaths seem to be coming from a great distance. It’s very high up here; the wind is cool, and it’s raining, but not quite so cold as Nargothrond in winter. Finduilas hates it. She hates everything. She wants her  _ life  _ back, and now she’s got none of it: just the scraps, not enough to be content, just enough to ensure that she’ll never be able to forget what she’s lost.

_ I hate them all. _

She throws her head back, and sings, trusting in the privacy afforded her by the wind whipping her voice away. Finduilas has never been a great singer, but she’s capable of it, and it bleeds some of the tension out of her now, which is what she’d wanted. And this song is a simple one: a ditty, more than anything, which she suffuses with her grief and the howl of her rage, so enormous she cannot quite grasp it.

“Are you… alright?”

Finduilas almost turns the rain to ice. She’s seen Finrod do it: knives of ice, lashing out at Orodreth when he was disturbed. Her father had laughed and turned them back on Finrod and nobody had been harmed, but those were skills learned on the plains of the Helcaraxë, not in the peace of Aman. If she does it to the person behind her, he will likely bleed.

She lets her hands curl into fists, nails digging into the skin of her palms, and then Finduilas turns.

It’s Maglor. Makalaurë. Whatever his ataressë is; she doesn’t remember it. Very briefly, Finduilas considers pitching herself over the side of the tower. It would handle everything very effectively, and no lies would be required either.

But no.

Simplicity has never been a part of Finduilas’ life, and she’ll not try for it now.

“It has been a trying day,” she says aloud.

“I can imagine,” he says, seemingly unaware of the danger he’d just been in. Finduilas forces herself not to flinch when he approaches, coming close enough to touch. “My own wedding day was much more elaborate. Half of Tirion came!”

“I’ve never been one for much fuss.”

“Neither is Tyelkormo.” He hesitates. “Did he say something to you? He can be- rash.”

“I can handle rashness,” says Finduilas wearily. She wants to be  _ alone,  _ so desperately she can feel the desire rising in her teeth. “It is not because of my husband that I came here.”

“Why, then?”

“I was looking for solitude.”

Something like amusement flashes across Maglor’s face, and he doesn’t leave. Finduilas tamps down the annoyance. She wants- well, she wants a lot of things, and this is a small desire in the larger scheme of things. She’ll bear through it.

“There aren’t many Vanya who would come this far north,” he says casually.

Finduilas smiles at him sweetly. “From what I’ve seen, there aren’t many  _ elleths  _ this far north. Annoyed them all off, did you?”

“Tyelkormo can take care of himself.” Maglor steps away from her, warmth draining into something colder: the first flash of the kinslayer, Finduilas thinks, and has to suppress a shiver. “My wife and I lost too much, when I left Tirion. And  _ we  _ had it much simpler. But if you hurt him...”

“Did you,” says Finduilas flatly. “Between your princely weddings and your failed marriages, what did you have that was simple?”

“Love,” says Maglor.

Finduilas turns to look away: to the stars, to the Trees. She laughs. “Don’t talk to me about things you don’t understand.”

Maglor steps forwards and touches her, barely, the tips of his fingers on her cheek like an uncle might do for a favored niece. But now Finduilas is his sister by law, not the daughter of his disliked cousin, and she has none of the shields of blood that she’d earlier sheltered behind. Not that she wants them now: a connection to these killers, to these monsters-

So she smiles at him, through the furious roil within her breast, a tangle of grief and rage, rage,  _ rage- _

“Tyelko deserves better,” he says softly.

“I will cut his throat open,” says Finduilas, just as softly, just as gently, and takes a deep, ravaging pleasure in the panic that flares Maglor’s eyes open. “And then I will sew it closed so well none of you ever have to see the stitches. Do not worry,  _ brother. _ I know what I’m doing.”

She cannot stop herself from pushing his hand away: from pushing his hand away with fingers coated in ice. If it burns him, then it is his own fault. 

Her face feels cooler now, at least, and though there’s a grim edge to her thoughts she wants to thank Maglor for it: her spine feels starched, feels like it’s been forged into pure steel from the rough iron of earlier. She has the courage now to return to Celegorm’s chambers, and to face him, and to begin plotting for remaking the world.

When she finally arrives, both Maedhros and Curufin are inside, talking to Celegorm. Finduilas purses her lips: Maglor’s interrogation had been planned, then, likely by Maedhros. A cunning enough tactic to approach Celegorm and herself while they were divided; one that might even have worked if not for Finduilas’ temper.

She softens her footsteps so she can barely be heard- a practice borne of long years in Nargothrond sneaking around an overprotective king and even more overprotective father- and waits, listening in.

“-business!” says Celegorm sharply.

“A random girl- you aren’t even telling us her  _ family-  _ perhaps a-” That’s Curufin, angry enough to be pushed into incoherence.

“Please, Tyelko, you know we only wish to help. We are princes of the line of Finwë. Our love is-” And that’s Maedhros, who would be the one person who could probably induce Celegorm to tell the truth.

Finduilas steps in before Maedhros can finish his sentence, and smiles blandly at the three of them. “Nelyafinwë,” she says. “Curufinwë. It is an honor to meet both of you.”

Curufinwë narrows his eyes at her. “Alyafairë. We were speaking of you just now.”

“I gathered as much.”

“Perhaps a family dinner,” says Maedhros. He sounds peaceable, but his eyes are a little too bright for Finduilas’ comfort. But then, most eyes on this side of Aman are too bright for her. Perhaps her own eyes have changed now, due to the Trees. “Tonight. We can speak together. As one family.”

“I find myself tired,” says Finduilas, truthfully. If she’s asked to speak to Fëanor now, she’ll likely confess everything without realizing what she’s doing. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Did you travel much?” asks Maedhros.

“From Oromë’s forests,” says Celegorm. “It isn’t far, but Alyafairë is not… hardy.”

Finduilas lets her amusement bleed across the bond, though she ensures the smile doesn’t touch her face. “I have been described as a hothouse flower.” By a scornful Curufin, once; he’d been drunk, and insulting everyone in the vicinity, and Finduilas had not been spared even if Curufin had been much harsher on the others, most notably Finrod. Finduilas knows that Celegorm realizes it: he’s smiling, properly, not smirking. “You have not wedded a scrub plant, I am afraid.”

“But you have,” says Celegorm, almost cheerfully. “Apologies, lady wife.”

“They do say opposites attract,” murmurs Finduilas, and then pivots away from Celegorm to look at Maedhros, whose lips are pursed tightly-  _ to hide humor or horror? _ Finduilas thinks, amused- and Curufin, whose face has gone tight and blank as blank cloth. “Kanafinwë came to speak to me. I’m afraid we didn’t get off on the right foot. Please, offer him my apologies? I was in a temper and hardly knew what I was saying.”

Maedhros eyes her, but he inclines his head in the end. “We shall see you for breakfast, I hope.”

“So do I,” says Celegorm, and waves them out.

…

They talk, for long hours, and agree upon a few things:

  1. They won’t talk about their past in Nargothrond
  2. Finduilas will try not to bring up his brothers, and Celegorm will try not to bring up her father
  3. If anyone tries to interrogate them about their marriage- or their past, or how they met, or Finduilas’ family- they’ll go selectively deaf
  4. They will try to save as many people as possible, and that includes Finwë and Fëanor



Finduilas isn’t happy about some of the things on there. Her bringing up his brothers, for instance! Loathing kinslayers isn’t the same as loathing someone simply for their personality!

But Celegorm is  _ less  _ happy about it than she is, and she does remember some points of compromise- a proper compromise is one where everyone’s left unhappy, isn’t it?- so she’ll just count herself as the victor and move on. There are more important things now, including how they’ll defeat Morgoth, how they’ll defeat  _ Sauron;  _ how they’ll keep the Silmarils safe.

They barely sleep that night, but by the Mingling of the Lights Finduilas has gained more confidence in their plan and she’s almost managed to convince herself that it’s  _ possible,  _ which-

Well.

If she’s got something to thank Celegorm for, it would be that.

…

“Any advice?” she asks, once it becomes clear that they’ll have to go for breakfast. 

Celegorm grimaces. “Don’t talk too much.”

_ I’ve never had a problem with being too  _ quiet, she thinks wryly, and is surprised when he rolls his eyes; neither of them are very used to having someone in their thoughts, though Celegorm is better than her at maintaining some shields.

“Nelyo,” he mutters. “And Finrod. Before they got control of it, they’d barely listen to your mouth and just use ósanwë. Fucking  _ infuriating.” _

“Can they read my mind now?” asks Finduilas, alarmed.

“Nelyo’s learned not to.” Celegorm shrugs. “And you’ll be able to tell if he tries. But if we ever meet Findaráto, you’ll need to be careful. He’s more subtle. And more powerful.”

“What about Galadriel?”

“Call her Artie when you meet her and I’ll teach you how to build permanent shields,” offers Celegorm, grinning wickedly.

Finduilas considers how her aunt might react to that, and she can’t help the snort. Then she thinks about it properly: it’ll only help Finduilas if everyone dislikes her. If she can keep her distance. If she can maintain perspective. The greaves she’s wrapped around her wrists- Celegorm’s old ones, barely shielding her bracelets from view- are a reminder of all of it. Finduilas is not here for fun, or to be a child, or to be anything other than her people’s savior. 

The only person she has is Celegorm.

And Finduilas has never been truly rebellious before.

There’s something she rather enjoys in it: the pounding heart, the wild joy. The way she doesn’t need to care about Fëanor’s approval, or anyone’s approval now; it’s a simpler life. All that she has to care for is her duty. 

“Teach me how to throw knives,” she says, “and I’ll cut a lock of her hair myself.”

Celegorm’s open mouth has her laughing, and they leave their quarters like that: Finduilas giggling, Celegorm grumbling, a narrow-eyed Maglor following near them.

_ I told him I’d cut your throat,  _ Finduilas says finally, when Celegorm starts looking irritated at Maglor’s reproachful silence.  _ I also said I’d sew it up. _

_ What in the world could have prompted that? _

_ He said I didn’t love you. That we didn’t love each other.  _ Finduilas frowns at her tunic. She’d cut one of Celegorm’s to strips and resewn it for herself, but she’ll need to get wool or silk from somewhere if she wants to look like anything near the others’ finery.  _ I might have panicked. _

_ Your panic leads you to threaten people?  _ asks Celegorm, amused.

_ Nowadays,  _ says Finduilas,  _ I don’t even know what my panic does. _

The breakfast hall is large: nobody’s sitting down, but rather milling about boredly, picking their favored foods from the spread on the table. Fëanor and Finwë aren’t there; apparently they tend to eat early and go off to their tasks. Most of the rest of the house does the same, but they’ve been waiting for Celegorm to arrive, or so he suspects. Finduilas takes whatever food Celegorm tells her is good, and settles in a corner to watch.

_ Mistake,  _ Celegorm tells her. He’s across the room, talking with one of the twins- Pityo, according to the faint murmurs Finduilas is getting from him- about something or the other.  _ Try to get talking to someone, or someone will start ta- Oh. I’m a bit too late, I suppose. He’s the angry one. Please try not to make him explode before I finish breakfast. _

“Morifinwë,” says Finduilas calmly. 

“Sister,” he replies, cautious but not- Finduilas thinks- suspicious. “How are you?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“I, too, was married once,” he says. “Has your bond settled yet?”

“It never acted up,” says Finduilas, startled into truthfulness. “Was it supposed to?”

“Only among people that know each other very well,” says Caranthir, shrugging. “I suppose you and Tyelkormo were very close.”

Finduilas shrugs. “I suppose.” Her eyes narrow when she sees the others converging on Celegorm: a veritable wall of very tall elves blocking her view. Either it’s a prank, or they’re trying to keep her from seeing it. When she sees the guilt on Caranthir’s face, Finduilas knows which one it is. “Who planned it?”

“Maitimo. Nelyafinwë.” Caranthir looks ill at ease, but he forges on nevertheless. “It would’ve been Kano here talking to you, but I don’t think you get along very well with him- he asked me to take his place.”

“I apologized.”

“Kano isn’t very forgiving.”

“Are any of you?”

Caranthir shuffles a little. “How did you meet Celegorm?”

“I fell on top of him,” says Finduilas distractedly; she’s focused on the interrogation happening in front of her. Then she remembers that they’ve the bond right there, running like an intangible from her to Celegorm, and it won’t take much for him to call for help if he needs it. Relaxing, she turns back to Caranthir. “We were in Oromë’s woods. It was quite the shock.”

“You like the outdoors then,” he mutters.

“I’m a weaver,” Finduilas corrects. “I’d rather remain home, actually.” Inspiration strikes her. “It was one of the conditions of our marriage: a dozen sturdy sheep and some silkworms. His rooms are quite dark: I’d prefer to have some tapestries on the wall. And not to stay somewhere so  _ cold.” _

“And he agreed?” asks Caranthir, looking fascinated.

“He didn’t disagree,” says Finduilas, which is the truth: Celegorm doesn’t know about it yet, to disagree. “When did your wife leave you?”

Caranthir flushes red. Finduilas takes another bite of some fruit that she’s never had before, and waits patiently. She’s never  _ baited  _ people like this before. It’s surprisingly diverting. 

“She refused to follow me to Formenos. Along with the others.”

“So I’m the only one here?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” says Finduilas, and means it: she doesn’t need to worry about collateral damage. 

…

She abandons Celegorm to his family after some time, and returns to his chambers, where she spends some time crafting a loom- the basics, now, but she can imagine how it’ll appear in a few days’ time. 

It’s thanks to Angrod that she even has this much knowledge of craftsmanship. He’d insisted that any niece of his that wanted a loom would have one, but one built with her own two hands. Finduilas had spent those years in the north crafting one after another, and only been truly satisfied with a loom a fortnight before the Dagor Bragollach. 

And then her mother died, and Minas Tirith fell, and Finduilas had  _ hated  _ Nargothrond for such long, bitter years that she hadn’t touched weft nor shuttle until Finrod gifted her a loom of surpassing beauty: a loom so wonderfully crafted that Finduilas hadn’t had the willpower to let it lie unused.

Now, of course, there is no such loom.

All Finduilas has are her hands. She puts them to use, now, sketching the designs and specifications carefully, making lists of the woods and cuts that she’ll need. Later, Finduilas will measure the branches and scope the trees outside- identify the precise suppleness and lines and lengths- but for now she’ll keep herself in the privacy of Celegorm’s rooms.

The door bursts open, and Finduilas flinches at the sound, smearing charcoal over the scrap paper as Celegorm enters.

“They were quite surprised that you would abandon me,” he says, when she doesn’t greet him with anything beyond a questioning look. 

“I thought you could handle yourself.”

“It isn’t that I  _ cannot. _ But Kano is… suspicious.”

“They’re easier to frighten than I thought they would be,” she muses. “The dreaded Fëanorians, and all it takes to have them fluttering like plucked birds is a few sentences!”

Celegorm rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen them obsessed yet. And anyways-”  _ we haven’t taken the Oath yet,  _ he finishes in their minds.

Finduilas lifts her brows. “Do you plan to do it again?”

“I’m not certain.”  _ If Finwë doesn’t die, then who knows what will happen? _

_ We’ll try our hardest to ensure that doesn’t happen. _

_ There is no try,  _ says Celegorm coldly.  _ I will not let him die even if I must throw myself into Morgoth’s path myself. _

_ Like you haven’t before,  _ replies Finduilas. She puts aside her sketches and twitches her tunic so it covers her knees, ignoring the jolt of fear rippling through her: death, again, so soon after so much. “A bargain, then?”  _ I’ll keep King Finwë safe, if you give me something in return. _

_ You don’t wish to keep him safe otherwise? _

_ I’m here to save my people,  _ corrects Finduilas.  _ Not my ancestor, who I’ve never met and have little affection towards.  _

_ He is your great-grandfather. _

_ If saving him means destroying the world, I know which one I will choose. _

“What kind of a bargain?” 

“Something along the lines of... keeping your family in line.”  _ Stop the Oath, if you think that’s the root of much of your evil. _

“Cunning,” says Celegorm, and then he nods, jerkily, before stalking out of the room.

Finduilas closes her eyes and keeps her back stiff, but she wants to collapse with relief. Every conversation with Celegorm- with any of them, really- feels like a battle, fought on a battlefield of the Fëanorians’ choice, with Finduilas on the defensive until she manages a few desperate, last-ditch salvos.

And for him to speak to her about their past using ósanwë!

Celegorm hadn’t suspected his quarters to be compromised just a few hours earlier. But he also hasn’t intimated that they  _ are  _ compromised to her. Which means that either he’s become paranoid or he thinks they will  _ become  _ compromised, and Finduilas is cautious enough to be wary of it.

_ Well,  _ thinks Finduilas firmly.  _ If you want a battle, you’ll not find me shrinking from it. None of  _ you  _ were ever spitted on a spear by mad orcs, and none of you yet know the scope of our battle. _

_ Give me a battle, brothers. Uncles: give me a war, even. Let us see whose desperation is the higher. Let us see whose anger is greater. _


	3. not a map of choices but a map of variations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not imagine that you know what I will and will not dare, Atar,” says Tyelkormo abruptly, plunging them all into a deeper silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names are in Quenya because we're in Maglor's POV right now. Er. I don't suppose I need to warn for an unreliable narrator? These two are still at the hating stage.

She is  _ strange. _

Makalaurë scowls at her when she emerges for dinner a fortnight after her arrival. His wife- and Carnistir’s, and Curufinwë’s- had not been overly obsequious to Fëanáro, but they hadn’t been  _ not  _ either. Fëanáro was the prince, the crown prince of Tirion; they owed him loyalty and respect, if nothing else.

But this girl- Alyafairë- does not seem concerned at all. She’d been very pale that first night when they met, hair and face bleached of all color- enough that Maitimo had been  _ worried  _ for her- but she’s recovered remarkably quickly. She’s quiet, as far as they can tell, and prone to isolation; none of them have really interacted with her much over these days, and it isn’t for a lack of trying. 

And Tyelkormo doesn’t seem interested in the least in helping any of them.

Makalaurë is certain that his brother doesn’t love her. He’s certain of that in a way that he can’t quite put into words. But there’s  _ something  _ binding Tyelkormo to her, something of undeniable strength. 

Something of frightening strength.

…

Their father’s much-vaunted patience dwindles inside of a fortnight. It’s a pity that it dwindles when they’re having one of the best dinners that they’ve had in a while; Tyelkormo and Pityafinwë had felled a deer just the earlier night, and it’s fresh venison on the table, not dried jerky or soft stew.

“Tell me, Alyafairë,” says Fëanáro. “Where do you come from?”

“From quite far away,” she replies, fingers barely pausing in spearing a piece of venison. She looks unconcerned, but Makalaurë has his doubts about that- something in her shoulders, in the tilt of her neck. “It was a long journey to here, my lord. I apologize for my delay in joining your suppers; I found myself exhausted.”

“Exhausted from  _ what?”  _ asks Fëanáro sharply.

“Walking.”

“Walking,” repeats Finwë disbelievingly. “My lady, I assure you- I’ve asked around in Tirion, and in Alqualondë, and in Vanyamar, and none of them have ever heard of a woman named Alyafairë.”

“They would not have,” she says, after a barely-perceptible pause. “It is my ataressë; I have used it rarely. My amilessë has some… unpleasant memories associated with it, which is why I chose to go by another in your home.”

“I simply wish to know who my son’s bride is,” says Fëanáro. “And you will tell me, before I lose my patience.”

Alyafairë’s hands are white on her utensils. Makalaurë winces; he can see the careful blankness on Maitimo’s face, and feel the growing tension of Tyelkormo’s shoulders beside him. This is one thing that all their wives have had to learn: the faithfulness of Fëanáro’s sons to their father. They will always choose him, and there is no protection offered to anyone from him. Not even to their most beloved.

Then she looks up, and there is something very ugly and dark in her eyes, and Makalaurë drops his spoon so his hands are free. For what, he does not know. Only that Alyafairë is angry, and viciously so, in a manner that Makalaurë has never seen before in anyone’s eyes, not even his own father at the height of his rage.

“That name is dead,” she says coldly. “You will not hear it again. I am as you see: your son has chosen me, and that ought to be enough for you if you care for his judgment.”

Fëanáro’s face grows darker. “Do not make me throw you out of my home.”

Now  _ that  _ is a threat he’d made once, and only once: to Carnistir’s wife, who’d snarled and then left of her own volition that very night. It’s quite the accomplishment on Alyafaire’s part. It took Nucúmna more than a century to infuriate Fëanáro to the same extent.

“Would you lose your son too, then?” asks Alyafairë.

For a moment, none of them react. None of them know  _ how  _ to react. Surely she knows that it is a threat she cannot uphold. Surely she knows- she is aware- that Tyelkormo will never choose  _ her,  _ the bride he has wedded for a fortnight, the elleth he does not even love, over his own blood. Even Carnistir had not said anything at their father’s threat, and he’d always been the most rebellious of them; Tyelkormo, loyal Tyelkormo, fierce Tyelkormo- he will surely not-

Fëanáro laughs, nasty and biting. “Do you think he will follow you?” he asks.

“Do you think I would ask,” she returns softly, “if I did not think him capable of it?”

Silently, they all turn to look at Tyelkormo, who is settled on his seat with an air of contradiction about him: tense insouciance; angry calmness. 

“Turkafinwë would not dare to-”

“Do not imagine that you know what I will and will not dare, Atar,” says Tyelkormo abruptly, plunging them all into a deeper silence.

“Tyelko,” says Curufinwë, shocked.

Tyelkormo puts his knife down and stands, guiding Alyafairë to stand as well. His eyes are blazing, and there is color high in his cheeks; there is something fey in his countenance, now, something tempered as the steel that their father had held to Nolofinwë’s throat. Something that they’ve never seen before on his face, none of them.

“I think we shall retire,” he says tersely, and, still not letting go of his wife, they leave.

_ Go,  _ says Maitimo, when Fëanáro sputters with fury. It’s an open command: to all five of them, who have never been as good at calming their father’s moods than Maitimo or Finwë.  _ Now! _

But Makalaurë pauses just before he leaves, and nods sharply at his brother. They will get to the bottom of this, even if they must identify the charm that Alyafairë has placed on Tyelkormo.

“Did you know?” Makalaurë mutters to Curufinwë, when they’re a little ways from the dining hall. 

“That he’d lost his  _ mind?”  _ asks Curufinwë, face white with his own anger. He would; Curufinwë’s never taken well to anyone defying their father. “Of course not.”

“It’s-”

Something crashes loudly above them, and they exchange a single look before sprinting up the stairs. They’re halfway up them when they hear the shouting.

It’s Tyelkormo.

_ -didn’t ask- I’m not- we promised- _

_ WHAT!  _ Alyafairë shouts back.  _ Promised what! _

_ I DIDN’T WANT THIS! _

_ NEITHER DID I! _

_ If you could just try not to be as cowardly as your father this might be easier!  _ shouts Tyelkormo. 

Makalaurë winces. Insults of a wife are one thing; insulting her family is likely to make her incandescent. He remembers how Ciryapandië had looked when he’d told her that he and his brothers had been raised to value loyalty, and it was not something that he could teach now, not to her, not to an elleth whose family clearly had little use for it.

He’d expected her to slap him. Ciryapandië had just looked at him, and then she’d said, very quietly, through their bond:  _ You are not the elf I loved.  _

Later, messengers told him that she’d razed their house to the ground and planted a gravestone atop the ashes, made of marble and veined with gold. She’d worn mourning colors for the three years mandated for grieving- as Finwe had done, for Míriel- and then Ciryapandië had moved on. She does not speak to him now. 

But Alyafaire is not Ciryapandië, and she does not leave, and she does not stay quiet. Something else breaks, splintering against the door with the sound of cold stone, and she snarls, in a voice like thunder, _Do not talk to me about cowardice!_ _You! You dare to talk to me about cowardice! I could kill you a thousand times and shred your fëa to ribbons and it would not be enough! Do not talk to me about cowardice when we both know what your bravery has done!_

Makalaurë makes a face at Curufinwë, who looks just as confused. Either Tyelkormo has done something to this girl’s family, or they’re missing something else altogether. His steps falter on the stairs. There’s an enchantment about Tyelkormo’s rooms, knotted firmly and woven with strength if not sturdiness. Done by Alyafaire, surely; Tyelkormo has never held much interest in enchantments.

_ We swore not to talk about- _

_ YOU BEGAN IT! _

_ Fin-  _

_ If you call me that, I will kill you,  _ she says, so quietly that it’s chilling.

Tyelkormo shifts attack.  _ Alyafairë. He is my father! _

_ Do you think I wish to be here?  _ she asks, and it’s quite clear that she’s crying; her voice is wobbling.  _ I don’t. I  _ don’t.  _ But I won’t pretend that I don’t know the stakes. I don’t need  _ his  _ approval. I don’t want any of their approval! _

_ We are not who you think we are! _

_ I know who you can be,  _ says Alyafairë.  _ I know what you have done. _

_ Not to you! _

_ Yes, well, it wasn’t  _ not  _ your fault,  _ she says.

Their voices drop into lower murmurs, barely audible. And then Alyafairë must say something- for Tyelkormo begins to shout once more, and then Alyafairë follows him, voice high and screeching, and something crashes again, glass smashing to pieces followed by the unmistakable crunch of flattened wood, and Makalaurë sings sharp notes, notes that rip through the weave of privacy about Tyelkormo’s door, and finally-  _ finally-  _ Makalaurë and Curufinwë manage to enter the room just in time to see her hurl a glass at Tyelkormo, which he ducks, only to have a shower of glass at his back and spine.

“-EVERYTHING AROUND YOU BURN!” screams Alyafairë, right before she sees Curufinwë over Makalaurë’s shoulder, and goes dead white.

Tyelkormo turns to look at them: there’s blood trickling down from his hairline, and there’s a gash across one of his arms, but he’s alright otherwise. Alyafairë doesn’t look much better- she’s clutching her arm like it’s bruised badly, and her other hand is speckled with glass like something shattered and she’d tried to shield herself from it.

“You shouldn’t have been able to get in,” she says, after an interminable pause. 

“I told you that we’re stronger than you think,” says Tyelkormo nastily.

Alyafairë sends him a look like she’s considering setting him on fire. Before she can speak, Curufinwë steps closer, and says, softly, “What would you like to burn, Lady Alyafairë?”

Alyafairë goes to speak but checks herself; she had been pale already, but now she’s even paler. She looks half-translucent, and sick with a sort of fear that Makalaurë’s only seen on cornered, starved animals, never on an elven face. She faces Curufinwe with the sort of dread that reminds Makalaurë of only one other face, really: Nolofinwë, steel at his throat, shoulders squared, face white, terrified but unyielding.

“Curvo,” says Tyelkormo, as if in warning. He steps towards Alyafairë, one hand outstretched.

She recoils from him.  _ “Don’t.” _

Tyelkormo drops his hand, and steps back, coincidentally between Curufinwë and his wife. 

“If it is my brother,” begins Curufinwë, threats thick on his tongue, gentle as a ripple of steel on skin.

“I do not want your brother to burn,” she says levelly, but it clearly costs her something to do it. “I do not want anything to burn. I would give much never to see anything burn ever again. I am simply warning you that you do not know what it is to see all of that you love in ash and despair, until not even light can make you warm. And you do not know how to fight to ensure that does not happen.”

“And you do?” asks Makalaurë.

“She does,” says Tyelkormo gruffly. 

He sends her an unreadable glance, to which Alyafairë swallows and looks away. She sags and slumps down to sit on the chair, looking very old and very tired. Tyelkormo sighs and turns away, towards them, and then lets Curufinwë lead him out of his own rooms without much protest.

“You have gone mad,” says Curufinwë, when they’re within Makalaurë’s rooms. “She’s half-feral!”

“Those protections on the doors were quite well done,” says Makalaurë gently. 

Tyelkormo sighs again. “You do not understand.”

“Because you aren’t  _ telling  _ us.”

“And I won’t.” Tyelkormo looks immovable, cut out of granite. “It’s her story to tell, and it isn’t an easy one at that.”

“You don’t love her,” says Makalaurë quietly.

He chews on his cheek: Tyelkormo’s always had that habit, and though he’s mostly grown out of it now, he still does it on the odd stressful occasion.

“It’s more complicated than that,” he says finally. “Do you love Itarillë?”

“Turukano’s child?” asks Makalaure, frowning. “I- suppose. She’s a child.”

“Exactly,” mutters Tyelkormo. “Duty. Responsibility.” He makes a face. “The right thing to do.”

“Alyafairë is your  _ wife.” _

“If there’s a spell on you-” begins Curufinwë.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” says Tyelkormo, and stands. “She is my wife. I know you don’t like her, but she doesn’t like you either. And do any of you think I-  _ I-  _ can be put under a spell?”

“If you’d just let me check,” says Curufinwë, sulkily, “I could confirm it.”

“No,” says Tyelkormo. “It’s my mind, is it not? My mind, my fëa, my marriage.” He softens a little- as soft as Tyelkormo ever gets, and that much is likely only for Curufinwë, for whom he’s always had a soft spot. “I don’t have a choice,” he says, and laughs, humorlessly. “I’m not asking you to like it. I don’t like it myself. But this had to be done, and, more importantly, has  _ been _ done. I’ve always held stronger to my vows than any of you, and I’ll not be changing that now!”

Makalaurë has the strangest feeling that his brother means more than what he’s saying. If nothing else, the criticism stings; he’d left behind Ciryapandië, and Curufinwë had left behind Meniëlwa, and they’d none of them been  _ scolded  _ for it by anyone, least of all Maitimo or Tyelkormo. Something has changed. Something dreadful has changed his brother.

“What do you want from me?” asks Makalaurë slowly.

“Nothing,” says Tyelkormo, and it might have sounded like the truth in any other mouth, in a face without eyes so dark, from a brother who had not just defied their father like it meant so little. “Nothing at all.”

…

Things settle into a strange, tenuous sort of peace. Alyafairë keeps to herself, and they can pretend that she isn’t there at all; Tyelkormo hadn’t stayed in Formenos for long periods anyhow, and his absences now from dinners might mean that he’s with his wife instead of off hunting, but that’s the only difference. Curufinwë is unhappy- he’d always been closest to Tyelkormo- and that means none of the rest of them are truly happy, but it’s a close enough fascimile when Tyelkormo’s being so stubborn about the whole mess.

Their father has another fight, this time with Tyelkormo. That goes on for such a long time that it’s quite the miracle neither of their voices go hoarse. But in the end Tyelkormo gets what he wanted: his wife, in Formenos, without explaining who she is or where she comes from.

…

She’s fascinating, at least in the little glimpses that Makalaurë gets of her from around the house: Pityo tells him that he’d heard her crying once, in the gardens, hard enough that he’d thought she was grievously hurt; Maitimo finds her training Tyelkormo to wield weapons left-handed, and when interrogated for her reasoning, she mumbles something about cutting people’s hands off; Carnistir exclaims, once, that Alyafairë’s experience in accounting is the strangest that he’s ever seen.

“She set aside half the budget for  _ steel,”  _ he says. “I’d think her of the Noldor if not for her hair!”

Makalaurë himself has seen her wandering about Formenos. She’d built her loom with her own hands, refusing all offers of aid. And she’d gathered the wool from the sheep Tyelkormo gifted her with able enough hands, gentle but firm. He has seen some of the tapestries- they are lovely, bright and vivid, beautiful enough that they remind him of another’s weaving.

But he cannot say that. He cannot even  _ think  _ that.

Míriel Serindë deserves better than to be compared to the workings of a shadowed granddaughter-by-law.

Still, Makalaurë remains confused- confused and irritated and irritable. His brother does not love her, and she does not love him, and still they remain together, their lives punctuated with fearsome arguments, and raging tempers, and only grudging, paltry bouts of affection. He has never seen them touch without it being clinical. 

And then, one night, Makalaurë is atop one of his favorite turrets, frowning at the stars for inspiration for music, and he sees a flash of silver and gilt across his periphery. He sits up and sees them: Tyelkormo and Alyafairë, standing on the riverbank threading across the southern boundary of Formenos like a glittering ribbon, heads bent together as they throw knives towards a nearby tree trunk. 

She is not smiling; Makalaurë notes, distantly, that he’s never seen her smile. But Alyafairë is moving methodically, hands economical in motion and eyes affixed to the target, and she is graceful enough, grim enough, that he could understand, perhaps, why his brother could have loved her.

But he still does not understand, not truly, not until long, desperate years later, after they have crossed an ocean and they have lost far, far too much to the Enemy.


	4. remembering with remorseful tenderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the very best weavers could do it. Only those with centuries of experience could do it. 
> 
> Thankfully, Finduilas is both.

Finduilas is not  _ happy,  _ but she is not dead, either, and her definitions of unhappiness have grown quite a lot over the years, so she’ll count her blessings for it.

Over the years in Formenos, she’s woven a neat little net of magic about the fortress. It’s nothing much; nothing at all, really. Just the things that she remembers being the most difficult for Morgoth’s forces to cross in Nargothrond: little gleams of goodness, something reinforced simply due to its nature. All of it is very easily overlooked. Mostly because Finduilas has no idea of how she’ll explain to Fëanáro if she’s ever caught out.

She’s outside, plucking the sweeter grasses for her sheep. None of them suspect what is coming, not even Finduilas herself: it feels impossible to imagine the shattering of a peace so deep and true as that of Aman. But then the great, shining Trees go dim, and dimmer still, steadily, like someone is purging them of light.

_ Which they are. _

Finduilas slips to her knees and touches the earth. She is of the Sindar just as much as she is of the Noldor, and the earth is hers even as flame and water is her inheritance as well. She opens her eyes, and a path of flowers lays before her, glittering silver even in the dimness.

Finduilas  _ runs. _

…

When she bursts into Formenos, they are all milling about, looking confused and frightened. Finduilas latches onto Celegorm.

_ You need to get them out. _

_ They won’t go, will they! _

The first prickles of power rock up her spine: Morgoth, tearing through her protections. They will not last for long, but the people inside will last longer than without them.

“Someone comes,” she says loudly, and looks up at Finwë. Finduilas must convince  _ him,  _ no other, not now. Then she remembers her promise to Celegorm, and wants to swear aloud, though she controls herself. A bargain sworn and struck: Finduilas cannot break it now. “Someone dark, and fell, and terrible.”

“Who?” asks Finwë, puzzled.

Finduilas bares her teeth. These stupid people, with their stupid questions. In Nargothrond, when that first bridge fell, she had not spent time asking  _ who  _ could breach their fair city, but rather  _ where  _ her people could flee to. “You must leave.”

“To where?”

“Máhanaxar,” says Celegorm. “F- she is right.”

“How can you tell?” asks Maedhros, puzzled.

“You mean that you cannot?” returns Finduilas. She’ll miss the loom she built here; it‘s a good material, and sturdy, and large. But she’d always known this day would come, had she not? “A darkness like a living thing.”

“Alyafairë-”

And that is when Morgoth tears through the last of the web, and she feels it shatter, rending a wound in her fëa that will hurt later, when she has less rage in her heart. The others feel  _ that  _ at least, and stagger backwards, and she turns to Maedhros, who’s the most likely to obey her.

“Get  _ out,”  _ she orders. “Melkor comes, and he will not be stopped.”

“I shall speak to him,” determines Finwë. “He is wanted by the Valar. He will not dare to-”

“The Valar are not here,” says Celegorm. “And you are not powerful enough to stop a Vala, no matter what else happens, Grandfather.”

_ “Go,” _ says Finduilas.

“And you? What are you planning?”

“To slow him down,” she says grimly. They look like they’ll protest, but Finduilas glares at Celegorm until he meets her gaze.  _ I must. I must look upon him at least once before the end of this. I must know what I face before I can weave it.  _

_ I will not have you trade yourself in Finwë’s place! _

_ I will not trade myself. But the only two who know what we face are you and I, and the people of Formenos shall listen to you the better. And you can corral your grandfather better than I could dream of. _

After an interminable pause, Celegorm orders her:  _ Do  _ not  _ die. _

_ I don’t plan to,  _ she says, darkly amused, and nods at him, and leaves him to handle evacuating his bone-headed family. 

She places more traps, little ones, annoying ones, along her path. Tries not to think about how she is spiraling into the fortress; how she is, with ever step, making escape more impossible. Nargothrond had never felt this suffocating. But Finduilas has more knowledge than Morgoth, and she knows the stories of what happened to the castle; she knows of its destruction. She knows how Ungoliant had swallowed all of the world’s light.

And she knows how destruction works.

Celegorm is busy: he is coordinating the people’s flight from Formenos. He is thinking of how this is so much better than last time, when they’d none of them had the slightest warning, and how his grandfather’s corpse had looked, after Melkor and Ungoliant finished with him, and how desperately he doesn’t want to be the only one with the knowledge of the future alive in the world any longer.

_ There is a pack in the riverbed,  _ she tells him along their bond, and Celegorm jerks.  _ It has only a few things: a knife, a stone. A jewel. Give them to my father if I do not survive. _

_ You told me you would not die! _

_ I do not plan to,  _ Finduilas tells him.  _ But I cannot be certain against an enemy of such power. _

_ Use one of the- _

_ If you do not find me,  _ she interrupts gently,  _ you will do this for me. Yes? _

After a long pause, Celegorm acquiesces. Finduilas nods and returns to the vault, where she begins to weave, and weave, and  _ weave. _

…

Her specialty is in weaving tapestries. Finduilas has done many of them, and done them with great beauty and detail. She has woven blankets, and gowns, and shirts, as well, that she sowed together once the larger, more elaborate pieces were finished. What she has never woven are shrouds.

She’d wanted to, once. But the Dagor Bragollach had left her too bitter to weave, and when she returned to her craft, Finduilas had focused instead on bright things. There was enough grief outside Nargothrond.

A shroud is what she weaves now, of plucked strings of magic, of her own fëa and the glitter of Fëanáro’s jewels, and it bursts into life around her with beauty and with strength and with speed: a gorgeous, ephemeral thing, made for the simple purpose of keeping her invisible. Once upon a time, she had not been able to escape orcs because she had not been powerful enough to do this. Now, she will never be caught so unaware again.

And so, she is there when Morgoth comes, and she is there when Ungoliant swallows Fëanor’s jewels and swells, and she is there when Ungoliant belches out something made of Unlight but still made of power that rests in Finduilas’ bones like blood, and she is there when the very foundations of Formenos twist and heave and writhe, and she is there, she is there, she is  _ there- _

She is there, to weave that power- the power of the unordered flame around her- into something more controlled and more directed. Angrod had spent many years explaining to Finduilas strange concepts; one of those was how every force has two essential components: strength, and direction. All Finduilas is weaving now is something that should gather the flame and the Unlight and the darkness into an ordered mess, right beneath her. 

Only the very best weavers could do it. Only those with centuries of experience could do it. 

Thankfully, Finduilas is both.

…

What should destroy Formenos instead swells and seethes, caught within Finduilas’ net and funneled down to a flashpoint. The stone beneath her feet grows red-hot. The Silmarils, burning Morgoth to ash, are the only light now apart from the fire beneath her, and Finduilas can feel her control slipping even as her fear rises: for now even her shrouds of invisibility will not hold. Not against the full regard of both Ungoliant and Morgoth.

Ungoliant skitters towards her, terrible and terrifying. 

Finduilas breathes in, breathes out. 

Thinks:  _ I don’t want to die.  _ Thinks:  _ I do this for love.  _ Thinks:  _ My wants have never mattered quite so much as my bravery. _

Finduilas drops the weave.

…

The world explodes.

…

She is heavier than the leashed fire itself, but quite a bit lighter than either Morgoth or Ungoliant. When Finduilas is launched into the air, she does not hit stone- the fire has already broken through the roof. She does not meet either Morgoth or Ungoliant along the way- their trajectories of flight are different because of their size.

Her clothes are on fire, and Finduilas is burning as well: she is not burned alive solely because her fingers are still twitching, still drawing on the last strings of her fea to keep her cloaked in magic.

Fëanor’s line has always been partial to flame, and that is the line into which she has bound herself. Perhaps there is some small mercy there, too, in how her burns have not yet killed her. But Finduilas is a daughter of the water-loving Sindar, the grand-daughter of the Queen of the Teleri, and water, too, is her love. She does not know how, but when she lands, she does not land on unforgiving stone or even flammable grass.

Finduilas drops into the river which was her sole hope of survival, and she revels, momentarily, in its sweet, sweet chill.

_ I live,  _ she manages to scrape up the reserves to tell Celegorm.  _ I live. _

And then she lets darkness take her.

…

_ Wait,  _ whispers a voice that sounds like Glaurung the Great.  _ Wait, little girl. The worst is yet to come. _

Their world is darkening. Finduilas swallows, and she thinks about the bracelets chaining her here: silver as Celegorm’s hair, gold as her own. The present and the future. She swallows, and Celegorm is there, in her mind’s eye, silent, tall, beautiful.

_ This is not our world,  _ she wants to say.  _ This does not belong to us. _

But the words do not come to her lips, only tears. And Finduilas wants-

She wants-

She wants-

_ Light. _

…

Finduilas’ eyes flutter open.

Everything  _ hurts. _

“You’re- oh, you’re awake! Healer! Healer!”

Someone sprints away, knocking Finduilas’ arm off the bed in their haste. Finduilas groans, high in her throat, but fights not to move; movement only seems to exacerbate the pain. She closes her eyes to evaluate herself, but her fëa seems to be in terrible condition, terrible enough that she cannot even send it into her limbs to ascertain which are capable of being used and which are, currently, about as helpful as a piece of driftwood.

“Lady Alyafairë,” says a gentle voice, much softer than the previous one’s hollering. “Would you please open your eyes? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she forces out, though her voice scrapes like jagged glass over skin. Finduilas can taste blood in her throat. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“You are in Tirion, currently. I’m the healer tasked with ensuring you recover.”

“Recover,” she says flatly.

“Lord Turkafinwë brought you back from Formenos. Your wounds were of a kind we’ve never seen before.”

“You’ve never seen burns?”

“Not these kind.”

Finduilas forces herself to pay attention. “Where is- my husband?” She turns, a little, and sees a red-haired elleth standing over her bedside, looking remarkably similar to Maedhros. Something in Finduilas’ heart quails a little. “You are… Nerdanel.”

“Yes, I am,” says Nerdanel, arching a brow. “And you are my son’s wife.”

Finduilas coughs. And keeps coughing, until she manages to drink some of the water the healer forces down her throat. “Believe me,” she says, and laughs, “it wasn’t  _ my  _ idea.”

…

Celegorm rushes in as soon as Nerdanel sends a messenger. He doesn’t touch her, but he sinks to his knees beside Finduilas’ bed and presses his hands flat on the covers. 

“You’re alive,” he says, and looks utterly relieved. “You’re  _ alive.” _

“I told you I wouldn’t die,” Finduilas replies, a little reproachfully. “How is- Finwë? And your father?”

“Both alive. Everyone else is fine.”

“The Valar?”

His eyebrows twitch down, the barest amount.  _ “They’re  _ concerned. And want to talk to you.”

“No.”

“I’m not certain you have a choice.”

“What would I say?” asks Finduilas. “I didn’t even do anything. It was just-”

“-didn’t  _ do  _ anything?” demands Nerdanel, who both of them must have forgotten about; Celegorm jerks like it, at least, and Finduilas would if not for the ache in her bones. “Nobody knows  _ what  _ you’ve done to Melkor, but Tyelkormo’s reports weren’t shy on what he saw, and that’s not nothing!”

A kind of watery shock filters through their muffled bond, and Finduilas realizes: this is  _ Nerdanel,  _ who had abandoned her sons and husband. She dips into Celegorm’s memories for the briefest moment, and sees that Nerdanel is only here because of  _ Finduilas;  _ she is only here because Celegorm went to her and begged her for aid. 

Celegorm had begged his estranged mother for aid.

Celegorm, who does not forgive, who does not forget-

Finduilas looks at him, and she cannot quite swallow the strain of shock in her gaze.  _ Was it so bad? _

_ Did you see corpses after the Dagor Bragollach?  _ he returns archly.  _ Huan pinned me down and Kano sang me to sleep before I punched him. Moryo dragged you out. It wasn’t… good. I can’t forget the  _ smell.

It’s answer enough. Finduilas can imagine the burns and the pain. That she can even move now is more than she’d hoped for. But then, elven healers have had centuries to practice songs and craft for no reason other than to mitigate simple pains.

Finduilas reaches out and touches Celegorm’s wrist, very gently. “I didn’t even slow them down much,” she says. 

He shrugs. “You’ve come closest to defeating him since Manwe threw him into Mandos’ halls.”

“I didn’t defeat him!”

“He bled across half the Helcaraxë.”

“I just made sure I got  _ out.” _

“Yes,” says Celegorm, “and in so doing, you managed to wound him. Congratulations, dear wife. You’ve made yourself into a song.”

Finduilas feels rather faint. “I didn’t  _ mean  _ to!”

Celegorm looks uncommonly- and uncharacteristically- cheerful. “Yes, yes, and you have no gift of foresight either. I’ll pitch another fit if you want when they ask about where you come from. But do figure out another story for them if they ask you what you did, would you? We’re on bad enough terms as it is without them thinking that we can- injure them- on accident.”

“I’ll tell them something,” Finduilas says wearily. She asks through their minds:  _ Beleriand? _

_ Father wishes for the Silmarils back.  _ Celegorm rubs his other hand across his brow.  _ There are meetings going on. All the time. _

_ You’re attending them? _

_ And I keep distracting them from the idea of an oath, yes.  _ He grins at her.  _ You upheld your side of the bargain rather spectacularly.  _

“Sometimes I think you’re bearable,” says Finduilas, aloud. “And then you act like this! Begone with you!”  _ Attend  _ all  _ the meetings, no matter how bored you are.  _

“I didn’t marry you for your nitpicking,” he says grumpily, rising to his feet.

“You married me because that was the limit of your imagination,” says Finduilas sweetly. Then she pauses, and touches the bedside where her knives have been neatly stacked, and returns a wide-eyed look to Celegorm. “Though… I wouldn’t disagree with some aid. You said you had a cousin I would like to meet?”

Celegorm’s face shuts down. Finduilas might fear that, but she can feel the laughter running through their bond like liquid gold.

“I’ll send Artanis,” he says.

“You’ve my gratitude,” murmurs Finduilas, and ducks her head.

…

In another world, Finduilas had been in as much awe of her aunt as she’d loved her. They hadn’t met often- Galadriel had been busy in Doriath- but when they had, her beauty and her grandeur had always seemed to put Finduilas into a sort of silent spell.

In this one, Finduilas is a grown elf, an accomplished elf, and, apparently, the famous one between the two of them.

In another world, Finduilas had barely exchanged words with her aunt. In this one, she waits only until she’s certain her feet can bear her weight, her greaves are knotted about her bracelets with strong spells of weaving and silence, and she doesn’t feel like she’ll faint if she runs. And then she chops off the very ends of Galadriel’s braid with the knife set on her bedside.

“I really am sorry,” she says, and sprints away.

…

Finding Celegorm is not difficult. Bursting into the meeting that he’s inside, full of the majority of the Noldor lords in Tirion- all the while half-wild, mostly hysterical, burns still speckling her face and arms- is not ideal, but then she tosses the lock of hair to him and turns to meet Galadriel’s flushed, furious face with a meek, proper smile, and the shocked, glittering thrum of laughter down their bond is worth  _ all  _ of it.

“It was a bet,” she tells Galadriel. “My apologies, my lady, for any of this. It was more to prove that I could do it than to hurt you.”

“You cut my  _ hair,”  _ says Galadriel, and she looks like she’s contemplating murder.

Finduilas nods. “I can sing it back for you if you wish.”

“Can you,” she says doubtfully.

“Well. Weave it back, actually.” Finduilas shrugs. “If I can weave well enough to wound Morgoth, I don’t think your hair shall prove much difficulty.”

She turns to her left, and, blessedly, Celegorm is there. For once in his life he’s playing the part she needs of him.

When she holds out her hand, he makes a face. “Must we?”

_ “You  _ must.”

“You cut her hair,” he says, bright as a sprig of sunshine. “It’s a  _ we _ kind of operation, lady wife.”

“When someone is drowning, some people throw themselves in to save others.” Finduilas rolls her eyes. “And other people ensure that if they’re going to drown, they’ll drown everyone along with themselves.”

“Are you suggesting that you threw yourself into the water?”

“I married you, didn’t I?” she asks dryly. “The  _ hair,  _ dear husband. I don’t wish to make Lady Artanis any angrier at me, lest she breathe fire hotter than that of Formenos burning.”

He narrows his eyes at her.  _ You aren’t anywhere near as subtle as you think. _

_ I won the wager, got half of Tirion to take me less seriously, and come off as more annoying than you.  _ Finduilas twists two strands of the hair into a knot, lets her fingers pinch at it, and then hands it back to her aunt.  _ I also annoyed Aunt Galadriel, and that’s more frightening than facing Morgoth. So, Celegorm: who  _ needs _ subtlety? _

“You can press it in,” she tells Galadriel aloud. “It should happen easily enough. Don’t brush your hair for three days; the bond will be weak. But it’ll be normal after that.”

“Thank you,” Galadriel grits out, stomping away.

Finduilas turns back to the head of the meeting- someone she’s never seen before, but someone vaguely familiar enough that she thinks…

_ Finarfin. Or Arafinwë. Call him uncle; it makes things much simpler. _

“Uncle Arafinwë,” says Finduilas, and sweeps into a bow. 

_ I look like him. _

_ Oh, fuck,  _ breathes Celegorm.  _ I hadn’t realized- you’ll need to- oh  _ fuck-

_ Calm down,  _ she snaps back, shoving the shock behind a locked door: she’s never seen her grandfather before- neither of them, actually, and no grandmothers either, because her mother’s parents died in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath and it wasn’t like Arafinwë or Earwen had been in Beleriand for her to know- but now it’s quite clear where Finduilas gets her own hair from, as well as the angle of her bones. Arafinwë’s looks had skipped all of his children- most of them looked like their mother, she suspects, or some mix of both parents- save for the coloring, which Finrod and Aegnor had been the only ones to inherit. But it had poured into Finduilas like molten gold, all of Arafinwë’s face and hair and bones.

Perhaps people will take it to be a Vanyarin resemblance. Surely that is what people will assume. Who would ever think that Alyafairë, Turkafinwë’s wife, is Arafinwë’s  _ granddaughter? _

“Uncle,” he repeats, with some measure of amusement. “A fine title for two who have never met. And an honor from one so titled as you.”

“I bear no titles,” says Finduilas humbly. “I’ve no wish for them either. I wed my husband in exile, with the stars as our witness and nothing to either of our names save for the clothes on our backs, and I would do it again.”

“Wounder of Morgoth is no simple title,” says another lord.

In their world, it had been Fingolfin with that title. 

“Morgoth wounded himself,” she says, a little too coldly. “The Silmarils burned him. If it had not been for that, he would have known of my presence. And it was Ungoliant that tried to destroy Formenos; I simply ensured that the destruction affected all of us instead of the stone alone.”

“Still,” says Arafinwë. “It was impressive.”

Finduilas sets her shoulders and straightens her spine. She is not here for her grandfather’s acclaim, or  _ anyone’s  _ acclaim, for that matter. There is a plan, and she will stick to it, she  _ will,  _ for she has come this far, she has chained herself to this fate and she will continue until its bloody, bitter end.

“If you think that was impressive,” she says, voice loud and fierce, ringing like the call of a spearing hawk, “then remember this! I did it alone! I stood before him alone- fearful, yes, and cringing- and I yet managed to wound him! Imagine! Imagine what we can do together, if I alone could do that much! Imagine the glory of the army, and the strength of our forces, and the blaze of our fires, so bright as to be seen across the full width of the Belegaer! Imagine all that we can accomplish if we only decide to reach out and  _ grasp  _ it!”

She will regret that later- in just another moment’s time. But for now there is only pride like a storm in her chest, and the knowledge that the Noldor must leave Aman, and the surety that she has tipped the balance into flight.

Into fight.

Later, Finduilas will be voiceless, and aching, and exhausted. She will sit with Nerdanel, and she will explain with her terrible Quenya script what she did in Formenos, and that will serve as her account to the Valar, because she has ruined her voice quite well.

But for now, she has firelight on her back and laughter, and the quiet awe of the Noldor, and that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas uses her weaving to essentially turn a bomb into a jetpack. She also, you know, caught Morgoth and Ungoliant in the backlash of the take-off.
> 
> Happy new year!


	5. across the slanting fields which i love but cannot save

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm surges forwards and pins Finduilas to the wall of the tent that is flush against a stone rise, one hand on her throat. Something wild rages in his eyes. “I hate you,” he gasps out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! This is the last chapter in Finduilas' POV; next one is in Maglor's, so we get a lot more bitching there. It's gonna be fun!

This time there’s no kinslaying. Finwë is persuasive enough for Olwë; though he and Arafinwë have no desire to leave- they’re staying back in Valinor, in fact- they’re working to get Fëanor and Fingolfin to Beleriand as quickly as possible. And where Fëanor might have pushed against any sort of delay, Finduilas and Celegorm are there- not calming things  _ down,  _ precisely, but being irritating enough that everyone’s attention is diverted from the question of kinslaying Teleri and are focused on kinslaying the two of them.

Finduilas has a list, actually: one that she’s working her way through over the long, stress-soaked weeks during which the Noldor are waiting outside Alqualondë for the Teleri’s swan ships. If it existed out of her mind, people might have worried about her. The names on it include most every Finwëan. 

It certainly isn’t her fault that some of them make it so  _ easy. _

Galadriel was an easy enough mark, but only because Finduilas did it to her first. She’s been avoiding Finduilas- and Celegorm- remarkably well over the next weeks, and so Finduilas hasn’t had the opportunity to really anger her aunt again. But there are others who are much simpler.

Turgon, for instance, has little compunction about bursting into meetings with a howl if he considers his rooms broken into. Angrod- her Uncle Angrod! Finduilas had nearly wept when she saw him again, alive and bright!- is a little more difficult, but not by much. All she does is nudge his compass levels awry with judicious application of force, and an experiment that lasted for nearly a year has gone to waste, and he’s  _ furious.  _ She tries to avoid irritating the Fëanorians, but fairness does tip her hand sometimes, and spilling ink over Maglor’s song notes is so  _ satisfying, _ even when it results in him screeching loud enough to shatter some precious Telerin windows.

Celegorm is half-giddy through the entire time, and it’s rather making  _ Finduilas  _ giddy.

…

“Do you take some pleasure in making enemies wherever you go?”

“I looked Morgoth in the eye and made an enemy of him,” Finduilas replies cheerfully, not looking up from where she’s knotting some seaweed. It’ll make for a good net to catch fish, or a decent net to string beneath Fingon’s bed and leave him smelling of fish, or both; she hasn’t decided yet. “I’ve found that Turukano’s shouting leaves much to be desired after that!”

A women draped in white sits down next to Finduilas. Aredhel, Finduilas suspects, though she can’t be certain.

“You’re not quite so funny as you think you are.”

“Ah! I’ve never claimed to be amusing, have I?”

“People do not like being made fools of.”

“Afraid you’ll be next?” asks Finduilas wryly.

Aredhel’s eyes narrow. “Curufinwë says that you behaved differently in Formenos. There are rumors that you have  _ changed  _ since your meeting with Morgoth.”

But Finduilas has been whetted on the bones of Nargothrond’s politics, which were ever more dangerous and dark than Aman can hope. There’s no doubt that Aredhel- as Finduilas heard tales in Beleriand- would have made a dangerous enemy, but this girl is not that Aredhel, and Finduilas feels a stirring of both pity and laughter in her chest for that.

“That’s one way of putting what happened there,” she tells Aredhel. “Meeting him! If I’d  _ spoken _ to Morgoth at all, that might mean something more. Spread whatever rumors you wish for, cousin; I’ve little fear of them.” She pauses, before Aredhel can take full offense. Perhaps being completely oblique isn’t the way to go about this either. “And- look around you, will you? Some things matter more than you’d imagine.”

“What is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

“That small annoyances don’t need to build up to larger ones,” says Finduilas calmly. 

She remembers the way that Finrod had defused Celegorm and Curufin, over and over again, right up until that whole mess with Beren. Celegorm would be furious and Curufin insulting, and Finrod would make it into a joke without much more than a few words. He’d kept the peace between all of them without making it look difficult, even though it must have been. And then her father had ruled, and humor had not been quite so much part of his repertoire in kingship, and everything had felt even bleaker.

If it must be Finduilas to keep morale going now, then she’ll do that with cheer.

“I don’t understand,” says Aredhel.

“Mmm. Think about when these insults happened, and which councils were disrupted because of them.” Finduilas arches her eyebrows. “And then tell me that they’re the product of  _ Morgoth,  _ Valar above.”

Aredhel leaves, frowning to herself, and Finduilas returns to her net, humming.

…

The actual journey across the Belegaer is far better than the one that Celegorm remembers; Uinen is not so furious, the Teleri are much better mariners than the Noldor, and though the actual force that leaves Aman is smaller now- driven not by revenge of their king but the insult to their prince- the ease of the journey means that it’s roughly a similar force that alights upon Beleriand’s shores.

Finduilas eyes Celegorm with wariness. He usually guards his thoughts better; it must be the exhaustion getting to him. The exhaustion and the shock, and all the things that have gone better this time over the flame and pain of the last.

_ We can do this,  _ Finduilas murmurs.  _ No oath this time; no dead family either. We can do this. _

_ Yes,  _ he says, clinging to her surety with desperate strength. 

…

It is in that first battle that things go bad.

Last time, Morgoth had attacked Fëanor with single-minded focus. His balrogs and his orcs were flung at the head of the battle, intent on slaying the person leading the entire venture. This time, he throws a great number of his balrogs towards Fëanor, yes, but he is also curious about the elf that wounded him so deeply.

Four balrogs are not so great an enemy as Fëanor had faced before he died, but they are a greater obstacle than any they had planned for Finduilas’ forces. Finduilas is on the eastern edge, near the water, and Celegorm is with his  _ father,  _ because- because-

Because they thought their actions would not have consequences.

_ Lead them to the water’s edge,  _ she commands one of her people- a stern-faced elleth with hair like a cloud about her face- and then begins knotting and weaving, fingers flicking through the air with the magic of the Eternal Song.  _ And hold, until I tell you. _

Her force is made up of healers and the wives of the majority of the nobility; they are the people to be protected, the ones who came for love of their family. Not the ones who know how to fight. 

But they have no choice.

If Finduilas remains where she is, she will expose the back of Fëanor’s army to the balrogs. She will break their spine if she remains where she is. 

And that is untenable.

…

_ Hold,  _ she cries, and her line, wavering and three-deep, made of mothers with white faces and wives with deathgrips and daughters with tears in their eyes- her line holds. 

The balrogs descend upon them, flame and whips of terror.

_ Hold! _

They hold.

The balrogs fall again upon them, and her people die, and the stink rises up to meet Finduilas.

_ Hold! _

The balrogs fall again upon them, and her people die, and they will buckle in two more attacks if she does not  _ act- _

_ Give!  _ Finduilas screams, voice like a spear of light and silver and ice, and the line melts away, and Finduilas’ nets glitter into view.

“Sing,” she cries out. “Sing, damn you! Sing now if you yet have breath in your lungs!”

And they  _ do,  _ these poor, shattered, grieving, wounded ladies: they sing out in a song of temper and a song of grace, and the sea rises up like a blanket of salt and rage, and the balrogs are drenched within moments, salt heavy on their wings and cold water damping their flames.

Before Finduilas can do anything more, two of her people run forward- both in pale gowns, looking more ghostly than anything- and thrust their spears. Two balrogs die in the swift attack, and a third is wounded, but the fourth manages to fly away before they can kill it. Finduilas drops to her knees, panting, in time to see that it’s Galadriel and Aredhel that attacked so smartly; their gowns are spattered with blood, but their faces are hard and unforgiving, and their spears glow in the dim starlight like so many lamps.

“That was swift thinking,” says Galadriel. “And good thinking, too.”

Aredhel is smiling, fiercely. “Up!” she says. “Up, cousin! It’s time to take this battle to our uncles!”

Finduilas rises to her feet grimly, and would have gone further if not for the wail that rips through the battlefield: not a wail of sound, though that follows on its heels, but a wail of  _ emotion,  _ pouring down her bond.

Her bond with Celegorm.

_ No,  _ she thinks, shocked, and runs without a second thought.

Finduilas skids to a halt at the sight of Maedhros clutching Fëanor’s body. There is blood there, seeping into the mud and the remnants of a whip beside a bleeding Caranthir, but the balrogs have already retreated, driven back by a griefstricken Nolofinwë.

_ No,  _ she thinks, and steps forwards, slowly, one foot in front of the other.  _ No, this is- this should not have- this should not be possible- I thought- _

“Tyelkormo,” she whispers. “Celegorm.” One hand reached out, just barely brushing his shoulder. “I’m so-”

He whirls around at her touch, so fast he’s a blur of silver hair and red blood on the hair. 

_ “You,” _ he says, and his voice echoes, fell and terrible. 

Finduilas recoils, falling back. His eyes glitter brilliantly, savagely, and this is not the elf who she’d wedded, nor the uncle who’d laughed with her in Nargothrond, nor the soldier who’d watched her march into darkness because he trusted her. This is the elf who had imprisoned Luthien, and slaughtered his way through Doriath, and brought destruction down on Nargothrond, and-

-and had not Glaurung said it?

_ The worst is yet to come. _

_ “This is your fault,”  _ he snarls.

This is why one did not ally with the Fëanorians. Because in times of peace they’re fine, and in times of war they’re the best allies possible, but in times of grief they are the most insane beings in all of Arda.

“No,” says Finduilas, and is fighting so hard not to quail before him that she wants to die. “I never wanted him dead. Not any of them. You  _ know  _ this, Celegorm- you- it’s the grief talking- it’s the-”

He laughs humorlessly, high as an eagle’s screech and just as awful. “Do not talk to me about grief, you fucking heartless-”

“-get him out,” says Finduilas to Maglor, who at least doesn’t look catatonic with grief like Maedhros beside them. “Get him  _ out,  _ I cannot- he will hurt himself- he will-”.

“-hurt myself,” repeats Celegorm wildly, and then he draws three fingers like claws through the air, and Finduilas chokes to a stop.

“Don’t,” she whispers. Through their bond:  _ Don’t, don’t, DON’T- _

“You swore to save them,” he says, and his nails are as knives on their bond, a threat and a warning all at once. “You  _ swore  _ to me-”

“I swore for Finwë, not Fëanor,” says Finduilas, lost in desperation. 

Then she feels it: the choke of their bond, thinning as Celegorm applies pressure.

And the desperation shifts, changes, transmutes-

(-it has happened before.

Finduilas had begged Finrod not to leave. She’d knelt on bended knee and begged him, and she’d wept wildly when he refused to see her. She’d been in such a temper after that; but nobody knows that, of course. Finduilas had limited her rage to her own rooms, and the shattered jewels and pots were never quite important enough for Celegorm or Curufin to know, and her father had bigger things on his mind at that moment.

Finduilas had begged Túrin as she was dragged away by the orcs. Oh, weeks of hard riding and starvation had dimmed her temper by the time she was pinned to the tree, but she still remembers the moment her desperation and fear had turned to a rage so hot it felt like it could burn the heavens. She still remembers the way her screams had not been only for Túrin, but also curses for him, and to him, and against him. 

And now- Celegorm-)

“-do not do this,” she whispers, but he does not heed her.

Finduilas is driven to her knees by Celegorm’s cruelty, by the twisting rend of his fëa from hers. It is an exquisite pain. It is a pain that she has never quite known before. And she looks up at him, this elf she has lived with so long; this elf she had bonded herself to; this elf she has spent more than two decades living with, laughing with, building with. And Finduilas thinks, bitterly,  _ Once a Fëanorian, always a Fëanorian.  _

She is kneeling before Celegorm, hurting somewhere deep in her soul. She is kneeling before her husband, and she thinks- she knows- that she will never quite forgive him for this.

“What I have made,” he snarls, “I can unmake.”

“Yes,” says Finduilas, and the words come out steadily despite the agony. Then she dredges up the last sparks of defiance from deep within her, and she smiles at him, and she pours all her truth and all her knowledge into the tattered remnants of their bond, and she says,  _ “Coward.” _

His flinch is enough.

(No it isn’t. It cannot be. Of course it cannot be.

But it will have to be.

And has she not spent entire lifetimes making do with dregs and ash?)

The world goes dark, and Finduilas’ last sight is of Celegorm, face a rictus of agony and hate as thick as the mountains of Thangorodrim.

…

She wakes in a small cot, with Galadriel beside her. Aredhel is there, too, and Finrod, and Turgon; a strange, eclectic bunch, thinks Finduilas faintly, before she drags herself upright.

Finrod turns to look at her, eyes dark. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone shredded my fëa.” Finduilas smiles grimly at his discomfort. In her previous life, she’d been his light and his lamp; the girl who danced and sang and wove tapestries to beat back the darkness for one more day- one more hour- in his glorious kingdom under stone. In this one, she finds that she’s rather lost patience for all of that. “I’ll live. How is my husband?” She pauses, and corrects the question. “Where is my husband?”

“In the Fëanorian camp,” says Turgon. “Kanafinwë took him off the battlefield after you fainted.”

“How long has it been since I fainted?”

“Not quite a day,” says Aredhel. 

Finduilas nods. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go to him, haven’t I?”

“Are you certain that’s wise?” asks Finrod.

“He’s my husband,” says Finduilas coolly.

“Is he?” Finrod doesn’t look like he believes her. “Tyelkormo tore your bond apart.”

“He certainly tried,” says Finduilas. 

They all stare at her. “He didn’t… manage it?” says Aredhel.

“If he wanted a wife who’d run away at the first difficulty, he married the wrong elleth,” says Finduilas. She touches her hair, and grimaces at the mud and blood in it. When she’d set Formenos and herself alight, her golden locks had been mostly burned off, so now she only has a short cut that reminds her of Túrin in those first few weeks in Nargothrond. At least it’ll be easier to clean. “This world has enough fighters; I leave that to him and his family. I am a weaver, and will hold it together until the end.”

_ Not long now. _

_ Too long, but not long at all. _

She smiles thinly, and forces herself to get to her feet. The world does not spin. Her bond with Celegorm is a sickly, frayed thing, but it holds, and Finduilas caresses it with gentle, pitiless calm.

“Do you know the way to their camp?” she asks.

Finrod still looks like he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. Aredhel is frowning, and Turgon is chewing his lip. But Galadriel smiles a smile of steel and starlight, and she says, “Follow me.”

…

Maglor and Fingon are sitting outside of the tent, murmuring quietly, though they fall silent at Finduilas’ approach. The rest of the camp seems to be holding their breath.

“Lady Alyafairë,” says Maglor carefully.

Finduilas arches her brows. “Do you not call me sister any longer, Makalaurë?”

He never has; he’s avoided addressing her, actually, all these years. Now he flushes under her gaze.

“We all saw what Tyelkormo did.”

“But not my response,” Finduilas points out.

Galadriel makes a bitten-off sound, almost like a laugh. Above them, the rain starts, and though it is light now Finduilas can tell that it will get heavier quite quickly. Very much heavier than any rainstorm in Valinor.

“I will not let you hurt him,” says Maglor softly.

Finduilas nods. “I’ve no doubt he’s hurt himself enough.”  _ And I’ll have my vengeance soon enough besides.  _ “I simply wish to speak to him.” And still Maglor hesitates, so Finduilas says, sharply, “He is my husband still. Our bond remains, and you shall not keep him from me!”

_ “What,”  _ says Fingon, jerking to his feet.

“Just because he thought that it would be easy to cut the bonds of a weaver,” says Finduilas, full of teeth, “doesn’t mean that I had to go along with the charade.”

Fingolfin emerges from the tent, face set in tense, unhappy lines, but he falters when he sees Finduilas.

“My lady,” he says, courteously enough despite his surprise and grief. “I’d thought the healers recommended confining you to your bed for-”

“It isn’t my bed,” says Finduilas, at the end of her patience. “The bond isn’t broken, my husband is an idiot, and I’m not going to be confined anywhere until I’ve spoken to him.”

“He’s not in any shape to be-”

“He’s in better shape than you think,” she says, and ducks under Fingolfin’s arm- thank the Valar for her height, at least in this manner- and is in the tent before anyone can stop her. 

Inside, the tent is warm; stifling-warm. Maedhros is sitting beside Celegorm, head in his hands, and Curufin is a whey-faced statue wrapped around Celegorm’s still body. 

“Celegorm,” she says, aloud, and sees some color return to his face. It’s anger and not anything else, but then Celegorm’s never been known for his calm. Curufin hisses furiously, unwinding from Celegorm enough to rise up like a spitting cobra. Finduilas ignores him; she focuses, instead, on her husband.  _ “Celegorm.” _

“What do  _ you _ want?” he grunts.

“Your attention.”

“I,” he says, “am not giving you anything.”

Finduilas bares her teeth. “You haven’t taken anything either, you sponge-spined moron.” One step closer, just the one. “Or did you not realize that our bond still remains?”

To that, Curufin jerks to a halt, and even Maedhros looks up. Celegorm is terribly still for a moment, and then he twists upright, throwing Curufin off his back. “Break it,” he snarls.

Finduilas lifts her chin. “No,” she says.

Celegorm surges forwards and pins Finduilas to the wall of the tent that is flush against a stone rise, one hand on her throat. Something wild rages in his eyes. “I hate you,” he gasps out. “I  _ hate  _ you, I- you are- you swore- you  _ swore-” _

“-nothing,” says Finduilas, as gently as she knows how. “The same as you.”

“I should have killed you in that forest.”

“I should have killed you in Nargothrond.”

“My father is  _ dead.” _

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and you’ll never understand  _ how  _ sorry- I should have been there, and I should have thought of it, but- but war isn’t my strength.”

He lets go of her, and staggers away, but Finduilas loops a hand through his sleeve and drags him towards her. 

_ It’s my strength,  _ he says, through their bruised bond.  _ It’s  _ my  _ fault. _

_ It’s none of our faults. Morgoth would have killed a hundred more balrogs if it meant getting Fëanor, and you know it. Perhaps better planning would have helped- but how much better? Another squadron? The balrogs would have defeated them. And your father would never have acceded to not charging from the front. _

He buries his head in her hair, and Finduilas lets him. She has not been held in a very long time; though they share a bed, there’s always a careful handspan of space between their spines. But Finduilas has always found it easier to offer love than accept it, hasn’t she?

Over Celegorm’s shoulder, she can see the ache in both Maedhros’ and Curufin’s faces. 

As well as the confusion.

“I can’t do it again,” whispers Celegorm.

Finduilas thinks about it: seeing her father die, seeing her lovers die. And her mother before that; her uncles. Beautiful Finrod. The flight from Minas Tirith to Nargothrond, that even now latches onto her mind and aches if she is not careful. Celegorm’s past has bled into hers as well, over the years; shared nightmares and shared traumas. She knows, intimately, the way blood splatters when a sword is drawn across an elf’s neck. Finduilas knows the agony of watching brothers that she does not have die, and the grief of walking into madness and evil because of chains that a beloved father placed upon them.

Finduilas knows.

“Come outside,” she says. “It’s raining. You need- you need the air. You’ll feel better for it.”

He swallows, and nods, and staggers away, trembling and shaking as a newborn colt. Finduilas presses a hand to her throat and turns away. A touch to her shoulder makes her flinch; she looks up to see that it’s Maedhros, mouth as soft as she’s ever seen it.

“I don’t claim to understand whatever bargain you’ve made with my brother,” he says, “but it has helped him beyond all meaning.”

He’d been a wreck when she got in. Celegorm isn’t much better now, but both of them have much more experience with handling grief than anyone from Aman; she’s covered for Celegorm enough on bad days in Formenos to have some knowledge of how to make his burdens easier. 

“I’m not sure if I can make anyone understand,” she replies. “I’m not sure I understand it  _ myself.” _

“How’d you know to get him outside?” asks Curufin harshly.

Finduilas softens, just that bit more. “He’s always liked the cold.” And when Finduilas tried to put up tapestries around their rooms, tried to make them warmer, Celegorm had not been able to sleep for a fortnight. “When someone is hurting like this- the best medicine is to give them the simple loves.”

“And how do  _ you _ know that?” Curufin’s eyes narrow. “What’s Nargothrond?”

“Common sense,” says Finduilas tightly, and flees before she says anything more.

Outside, Celegorm is shivering; most people have gone inside, but he is standing beneath the rain, head tilted up, arms outspread, and whatever tears running down his face are washed away too quickly to be seen. Finduilas joins him. Her gown is immediately soaked through. The rain is so hard that it feels like it might bear her down, push her into the earth, heavier than all her grief and all her pain.

_ Do you remember?  _ she asks through their bond.

Celegorm doesn’t twitch, but their bond blossoms open like a lotus at sunrise. 

_ Nargothrond. Rain at Nargothrond. And the shining clouds after it- _

_ Yes,  _ he says, and the memories pour between them. 

Finduilas- weeping, alone, motherless daughter of a prince with no knowledge of raising children. Celegorm, tired, worn of war and the taste of blood on his teeth. The highest tower of Nargothrond, a spear into the sky, and the rain like a shroud upon both of them. They’d never spoken of it before or after, and never even repeated it, but Celegorm had been more comforting to her then than Finduilas has ever been able to put into words.

Even now, the most beautiful sky that Finduilas knows is not the starlit twilight, nor the shining blue of a cloudless morning, or even the glow of dawn. It is the hard-fought, gilded light of a stormcloud giving way to the sunlight. The darkness emerging to the light. The cold surrendering to the warmth.

_ I am sorry,  _ he says, quiet as a breath.

_ So am I,  _ says Finduilas, and though they do not hold hands, or each other, their bond glitters between them like a band of silver and gold bright as the sunlight that will follow the rain soaking them.

…

A week later, Maedhros gets a message from Morgoth. Finduilas watches the great featherless bat circle closer and closer, and swallows, hard, against her grief and her fear.

_ I am not ready,  _ says Celegorm, when she goes to him.  _ You are not ready either. _

_ I looked into his face and saw death,  _ replies Finduilas.  _ And now you shall do the same, and see pain. I am sorry. I wish we had more time. I wish I could give that to you. But- but you said it yourself, didn’t you? _

_ Yes,  _ says Celegorm.  _ Better me and not Maitimo. Better me and not Makalaurë. _

_ You are the finest brother in all of Aman.  _ She touches his cheek, memorizes the lines of it. One last night together, before the end. It takes a different kind of courage to walk into agony unbending, all to protect family. Finduilas has learned that pain over these years; she has seen Celegorm learn that pain, too.  _ Be strong. Be true. I shall come to you as soon as I can. _

From somewhere, Celegorm finds a smile.  _ If nothing else, darling wife, I have one surety: I am, by far, more annoying than my eldest brother. _

“Celegorm,” says Finduilas, aloud, because these words deserve to be spoken into being, into Manwe’s winds and beneath Varda’s stars. “I hate you. I’ve hated you for so long that I don’t know what I would be without it.” His smile fades, the faintest bit, into that demonic, demented grin he wears as a mask. “But- I could not have done this without you. And over these years I have- it has been- I didn’t- no.” She breathes in, and out, and then laces her fingers through his, her scarred palm on his. “You have been a crutch and a shield and a sword,” she says softly. “And what living thing does not grow to love the shield that protects it?”

The smile fades away, replaced by something that would leave him looking very young. “Ai, Finduilas, you-”

“-if ever you need me to walk over mountains, or break your chains, or act as a shield, I shall be there,” Finduilas tells him, and raises his hands in her own to kiss his knuckles, his dear, scarred knuckles, his sweet fingers that will soon be broken uncountable, innumerable times. “I swear that to you, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë: from this day until the Dagor Dagorath, you have only to call, and I shall come to your aid.”


	6. i pare away, no hero, merely a weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makalaurë thinks about it. His mind feels a little like it’s cracking in two. “You married your _uncle,”_ he says.
> 
> “It was not my idea,” says Finduilas. “It’s _not_ my fault that Celegorm has two answers to a problem, and marriage is the only nonviolent one!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this story is finished! Thank you for reading XDD
> 
> The story title comes from Persephone by Tamino, and all the chapter titles are taken from Adrienne Rich's poems. Hope y'all enjoy it!

Makalaurë is in the tent with Maitimo the night before he must leave for the parley with Sauron when Tyelkormo comes in.

He looks better now than just a few days earlier; the grief of their father’s death had hit him and Curufinwë the worst, but Tyelkormo’s wife’s interference- and, subsequently, Tyelkormo’s handling of Curufinwë- has mitigated what could have been the worst impulses of either. Makalaurë can’t believe he must be grateful to  _ her,  _ but then Alyafairë’s forces had routed three balrogs and held the rearguard even under horrible defensive positions, so he supposes that he’ll just have to contend to being in her debt twice- no,  _ thrice,  _ including Formenos- even while finding her personally fairly detestable.

“For courage,” says Tyelkormo, holding up a bottle of something that swills glutinously within the glass. “And don’t try to refuse it, Nelyo! I know what you offered to Maka the night before he wedded Ciryapandië.”

“Don’t call me that,” says Makalaurë reflexively, but Maitimo speaks over him: “You weren’t supposed to know that.”

“I’m  _ hurt,”  _ says Tyelkormo, but grins. “Mostly that you thought I wouldn’t hear Makalaurë going on about hair like the spaces between the stars, but also that I wasn’t invited. What did you think I was going to do? Rat you out?”

“You and Curvo have always been clo-” begins Maitimo.

“-before your wife came along,” says Makalaurë, with slightly more venom than he’d meant. He blinks, and then sighs, and waves Tyelkormo to the seat; Tyelkormo ignores him and sprawls onto the bed. Maitimo glares at Makalaurë, so he says, sulkily, “I didn’t mean it like that, Tyelko.”

Tyelkormo shrugs and throws him the bottle. “It’s funny, really. How much you both dislike each other.”

“Others would care more about family strife,” says Maitimo tiredly.

“What, like you?” Tyelkormo clicks his tongue. “Give him some of the wine, Kano. It’s far too late to be caring for  _ family strife  _ when we’ve got so much else to care for!”

“Like what?” asks Makalaurë warily.

“Like victory.” Tyelkormo rises and snatches the bottle away from Makalaurë, and holds it to Maitimo’s lips until he takes a drink, before doing the same to Makalaurë. There’s something gleaming in his eyes, something fever-bright and hot as their father’s pyre. “Like  _ vengeance.” _

“Tyelko,” slurs Makalaurë. There’s something strange in the wine; it’s sweet, too sweet, and deadening. “What’s- what are you-”

Maitimo tries to rise, but cannot quite manage it; Tyelkormo wrestles him back to the bed. When he rises, his face is white, and the brittle joy of earlier has shattered into something jagged and ragged and cold.

“I love you,” says Tyelkormo. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

His kiss to Makalaurë’s brow is hot, hot as a brand. He does the same to Maitimo, and then Tyelkormo settles there, at Makalaurë’s knees, until the world grows dark and cold. 

…

Makalaurë jerks awake to sunlight over his face.

On the bed, Maitimo does the same.

_ Sunlight.  _ Something clutches at Makalaurë’s heart: horror, perhaps, or fear. Fear of the unknown, because he doesn’t know what- what Tyelkormo did. Has done.  _ Sunlight is wrong, because- _

Maitimo was supposed to leave at dawn.

“Tyelko,” growls Maitimo, throwing off the covers. 

But he cannot stand, or not stand properly; Makalaurë, following his example, simply collapses back into his chair. 

“I’ll flay him,” says Maitimo.

“I’ll hold him  _ down,”  _ retorts Makalaurë. “What was in that wine, curse the boy! Now is not the time for pranks- I’d think he’d understand after-”

He bites off the rest of the sentence, but the harm is done. Maitimo’s face has gone cooler, like the smooth whorls of cooled lava, and their father’s ghost hangs over them like a sharpened sword.

“A delay with Sauron cannot be-”

Before he can continue, a terrible sound starts in the camp: an ululating, despairful cry. A cry that does not  _ stop;  _ it only continues- from a single voice being picked up to more, and more, and  _ still  _ more-

The burst of alarm seems to lend energy to Maitimo, for he rises, and wobbling only slightly, strides out of the tent, buckling on his sword as he does. Makalaurë, grimacing, follows him.

“If Sauron decided to attack because Tyelko drugged us,” says Maitimo, voice so similar to their father that Makalaurë flinches, “I will have him banished for this, make no doubt.”

“I’ll find him,” says Makalaurë quickly. “You find out what’s happening.”

They part ways, Makalaurë heading over to Tyelkormo’s tent. Inside, Alyafairë is standing in the middle, perfectly still.

“Alyafairë,” says Makalaurë, stepping inside. “Do you know where my brother is?”

She does not turn, and does not answer. 

There had been annoyance in Makalaurë’s chest up until now, matching the fear; but now, when he walks around to see Alyafairë’s face, the fear swallows the annoyance whole.

Her face is a perfect mask of grief, and tears drip down her eyes like twin rivers.

“No,” he whispers. “Alyafairë- where is he? Where is Tyelkormo?”

And she looks up at him, and she says, flat and level as a blade, “Gone.”

…

Makalaurë gets the information out of her later, and pieces it together with everything he knows of the others who are weeping: Tyelkormo rode out at dawn in Maitimo’s place, astride a strong horse, in armor still stained with their father’s blood. He’d taken the guard that Maitimo had announced. 

All of the guards are dead now.

But Tyelkormo’s fate remains unknown: the bond lies fallow as a salt-sown field. The only one who could confirm it is, as of now, dosed into unconsciousness by a grim-faced healer when they studied her fëa. There’s a quick meeting called by Maitimo, composed of their uncle, their cousins, and all their brothers; it turns, swiftly, into a free-for-all of people shouting, and tensions rising, and rage like a panther prowling about them.

The brewing battle stops only when a bat- similar to the one that had delivered the initial request of parley- drops a rain of silver strings atop them, along with a note that lands in Maitimo’s outstretched hand.

The color drains from Maitimo’s face when he reads it, and he tosses it onto the table once he’s finished. “Well,” he says, each word precise as a sword thrust. “I suppose that answers the question of Tyelkormo’s survival.”

Makalaurë touches the silver strands. They are far too pliant to be of metal, but no bark would splinter in such a manner. For a dizzying moment, the dread keeps him ignorant, but then the truth is too plain to deny: it’s hair, it’s  _ Tyelkormo’s  _ hair. The cry wrenches out of his throat without his permission.

“Morgoth wishes for another parley,” says Maitimo, when both Nolofinwë and Makalaurë look stricken for answers. “He offers a Silmaril, if we are to surrender arms and leave in peace. And he swears to hold Tyelkormo as hostage until we surrender.”

“No,” whispers Carnistir, face not flushed but rather pale as Irissë’s gown.  _ “No-” _

“We must get him back,” says Curufinwë. “We must attack with the glory of all the Noldor- we must go  _ now-” _

“A force such that Arda has never seen before,” says Nolofinwë lowly. “This insult to our family shall not lie unavenged.”

“No,” says someone from the archway entrance to the chamber.

Alyafairë has come.

They all turn to look at her: she’s surely half-mad now, thinks Makalaurë, and if not half-mad then certainly mostly too drugged to make sense.

But her gaze is clear, and though she is very pale and there are dark circles under her eyes, her gait towards the center of the meeting circle is steady. 

“No?” asks Curufinwë, outraged.

Alyafairë meets his gaze. “No force that you gather shall be able to breach Angamando. All of you know this. How many of your people shall you slaughter for a vain hope?”

“Turkafinwë is your  _ husband,”  _ says Nolofinwë. 

“And he is your nephew,” says Alyafairë quietly. “But you are not responsible for solely him, are you?”

“We owe it to him to try!” exclaims Nolofinwë.

“We owe him far more.” Her face tightens. “We owe him a debt beyond simply trying the most obvious recourse of action. Do you not think that Morgoth shall have considered your desire for vengeance?” Something like comprehension dawns on Maitimo’s face, though everyone else still looks unhappy. “He shall have ensured traps were laid to kill as many of us as possible- or, doubting that, to capture more hostages. I shall not give him one more ounce of power in this bargain! And as Turkafinwë’s wife, it falls to me to claim his vengeance, does it not?”

Well,  _ that’s  _ a time-honored tradition, and one that none of them will be hasty to disagree with. 

Had Tyelkormo not had a wife, it would have fallen to their father, or- now that Fëanáro is dead too- to Maitimo. But Alyafairë is correct now. His vengeance is hers.

“What do you suggest then, sister?” asks Maitimo.

Alyafairë looks up at him. “Battle is not my strength. I only came to this meeting when Ga- Artanis spoke to me of the hair fallen from Morgoth’s messenger, and that I do to advise you not to lose your forces needlessly.” She blinks, once, and sways, before gritting her teeth and forcing her spine stiff. “But if you must have my advice, I’d refer you to speak to the Doriathrim. They might have further information on how to battle one of the Valar. Is not their Queen a Maia?”

Artanis and Irissë flank her as soon as she finishes talking, murmuring in her ear and guiding her out of the council. Makalaurë watches them go. It’s not bad advice, and certainly better than any of them could have expected from an impaired, grieving wife.

The meeting breaks apart; Maitimo doesn’t stop as he usually would to speak to their uncle or to Findekáno, instead following Alyafairë and stopping her at the archway. The rest of them- Makalaurë and his brothers- trail in his wake. The only person now who knows how Tyelkormo fares is Alyafairë, and they’re all desperate for news.

When Maitimo explains this to her, Alyafairë puts a hand to the archway, as if she’s dizzy. Her face is miserable.

“Can you feel him?” asks Makalaurë.

“Yes,” she says, after a long pause. Then, slowly: “He lives.”

“Is that all you know?” asks Carnistir sharply.

Alyafairë closes her eyes. Irissë and Artanis look like they wish to intervene, but Alyafairë speaks before they can.

“No,” she says, voice threaded with exhaustion. “Be careful what you ask, Carnistir. I am not… this is not easy.”

“No?” asks Curufinwë derisively. “You certainly abandoned him without much difficulty.”

“Abandoned,” says Alyafairë lowly. 

Artanis scoffs loudly, coming closer to Alyafairë and wrapping an arm around her waist as if for support.

_ “Abandoned,”  _ says Alyafairë again, like she cannot believe it.

Makalaurë shifts, uneasy. Carnistir frowns.

“We simply wish to know how our brother fares,” says Maitimo pacifyingly. “You cannot deny that you are our only source for news.”

“When the only news is bad or worse, would you not prefer to remain ignorant?” returns Alyafairë.

“We shall be the judge of that,” says Curufinwë. “It is not your place to protect us from our brother’s agonies!”

“I have not abandoned him, Curufinwë,” says Alyafairë quietly. “I would not. But do not make me explain what he is experiencing. It is- not pleasant. That is all that you must know.”

“We always knew you to be heartless,” whispers Curufinwë, and even as Makalaurë goes to stop him- it shouldn’t  _ be  _ Makalaurë; it should be Tyelkormo, it should be Tyelkormo cuffing him over the head and laughing, but Tyelkormo is  _ not here-  _ “but never so cold, not even to your husband.”

“Call me heartless, then,” says Alyafairë, and turns to leave. 

But before she can get too far, Curufinwë slices at her mental shields as if to get the information by force. They all feel it- Maitimo reaches for Curufinwë, and Makalaurë freezes in horror, but Alyafairë goes rigid, and before any of them can truly react she’s returned and there is a knife with a wicked edge pressed against Curufinwë’s throat.

There is madness in her eyes.

“Sister,” says Makalaurë, as soothingly as he can manage.

“How dare you,” she says, trembling.

“I will  _ know-” _

“Know what? Know  _ what?  _ Know that there are knives in your brother’s chest that he cannot remove? Know that he feels colder and emptier than the plains of the Helcaraxe? Know that his legs have no chains upon them because they are so shattered he could not walk even if he wished?”

She drops the knife. Steps away.

Makalaurë feels Carnistir’s hand upon his shoulder. The grip is bruising, but, Makalaurë thinks, more for support than to lend it. Maitimo, still clutching Curufinwë, has gone white as a ghost.

But Curufinwë has never known when to stop, has he?

“You certainly are speaking against rescue if he suffers so greatly.”

“Because I am not a fool such as you,” she hisses. “Because I will not see you squander your forces in a mad rush as your father did.”

“Alyafairë,” says Makalaurë, warningly. 

Curufinwë is furious; it will not take much to tip him into madness, too.

“He was a fool,” says Alyafairë, apparently too far gone herself to heed caution. “Fëanáro died uselessly, at the vanguard for no reason other than his pride. And you would be the same, would you not,  _ Curufinwë?  _ You would throw your army against Angamando and weep when it came back shattered, and you would continue it again until all you had left was ash and the dust of your brother’s bones! Greatest craftsman of the Noldor or not- well, today has proved that  _ you  _ certainly, are fitting to be Fëanáro’s heir!”

“How  _ dare-” _

“If I am a heartless wife,” she continues ruthlessly, “you are a mindless wretch, and I know which I prefer to be!”

She flees, then, but limps as she does so. Limps, Makalaurë realizes, as if she expects one of her legs to collapse under her for agony.

…

Maitimo insists on putting a guard on her- at least one of the six of them, constantly. Morgoth has already proven capable of attacking Alyafairë directly for Formenos, and this will not help in that.

But Alyafairë does not seem very happy about it.

She avoids them as much as possible. She ignores them when that’s impossible. The only people she speaks to are Artanis and Irissë, and- rarely- Turukáno. And the three of  _ them  _ barely interact with the Fëanorians if they can avoid it.

Curufinwë takes the night shifts, and Carnistir the majority of the mealtimes, and the twins the evenings, but Maitimo has more work on his hands as ruler, and so Makalaurë tends to pick up the slack for his shifts, meaning that he spends far more time with his sister by law than he’d ever imagined.

Perhaps that’s why he can draw the conclusion that none of the others have done.

…

(For Alyafairë to feel the bond, it needs to be open on both sides. It doesn’t surprise Makalaurë that she would keep it open, but Tyelkormo has closed off all of his own.  _ All  _ of them. Why would he keep it open between the two of them? Why would he not attempt to spare his wife the all-consuming pain of his torture? What could possibly induce him to keep it open?

That is not the brother or the husband that Makalaurë knows.)

…

A fortnight after Tyelkormo’s capture, Alyafairë takes up weaving once more.

…

“Why weaving?” he asks, once.

“Why singing?” she returns, fingers unceasing in their flawless motions. “This is where my soul sings. This is what I was born for.” Her face softens into something tender as newborn sunlight from the rictus of pain it had been just moments earlier. “My mother was a healer. I learned weaving from her; the mending of things gone wrong. Such is my craft.”

…

Doriath sends messengers, and Artanis- along with her siblings- are allowed within its borders. Alyafairë bids goodbye to them fairly distractedly; she’s been obsessed with her weaving, barely sleeping over the past few weeks or even pausing for food or drink. Makalaurë worries, but doesn’t say anything. Of all things, weaving seems the least destructive method of coping the capture and torture of one’s soul-bonded spouse.

But Doriath has few enough answers.

Alyafairë frowns, and looks distressed, but there’s so little actual panic that all Makalaurë’s suspicions coalesce into something cool and hard in his belly.

He sneaks out of the clearing and back to Tyelkormo’s tent. The inside is cool and dark, all save for a little shaft of moonlight falling onto the loom upon which Alyafairë has been laboring for all these weeks. Makalaurë approaches it, studying the tapestry.

“Don’t touch it.”

He looks over his shoulder to see Alyafairë, standing at the tent entrance. “You’re planning something,” says Makalaurë.

“Yes,” says Alyafairë. 

“Can you save Tyelko?”

“That is the point, yes.”

“How?”

“You didn’t think I would let him be captured without any hope of rescue, did you?” asks Alyafairë, smiling ruefully. “You never have underestimated me, Makalaurë.”

_ “How?” _

“That is a long story, indeed,” she says. “And one I have not the time to explain. The moon shines brightly tomorrow night; I do not wish to wait for another month.” She steps forwards, and undoes the tapestry from the loom, and then folds it away carefully into a large bag on her bed. “I’m glad Artanis returned in time. Tell them that I’m glad I got to see her again. This is hard enough doing it alone.”

“I don’t understand,” says Makalaurë lowly. “You’re leaving?”

“Did you think I would stay?”

“Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?”

Makalaurë inhales slowly.  _ Angamando.  _ Where Tyelkormo is, weeping with his broken legs. “You will not succeed.”

“A fool’s hope is hope still,” says Alyafairë calmly.

“I cannot let you go.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“This is foolish,” hisses Makalaurë. “This is- madness! Of the highest order! What, do you think that simply because you injured Morgoth you will be able to do so again? He will kill you! Or he will take you prisoner too!”

“If you knew the truth, you would not be so hopeless.”

“I  _ don’t  _ know,” says Makalaurë loudly. “Because you- and your husband- have refused to tell me! To tell us! For decades!” He stands, and breathes in, breathes deep, so his lungs are ready. “This ends now.  _ Now.  _ You will explain, or I will shout until all the people of this camp comes here and you will surely not be able to leave!”

“You will not stop me from saving your brother,” says Alyafairë softly.

When a note goes too high, Makalaurë uses his harp to sing what he cannot. When the swords of his brothers faltered, he’d learned to twist instead of taking the blow head-on.

_ Compromise,  _ he tells himself grimly.

“Take me with you, then. If you must leave tonight. You’ll have need of someone to guard your back anyhow.”

Alyafairë studies him. Then she nods. “Three Silmarils, and three of us. Yes. I can… accept it, if not like it. Move swiftly! Take nothing that shall be too heavy.” 

…

On their flight from their camp to Angamando, Alyafairë spins a tale so ludicrous Makalaurë can scarcely believe it. 

He  _ doesn’t  _ believe it, not until she turns her head to the light of the rising dawn, and he sees their uncle’s features on her own: Arafinwë has always been the fairest of the sons of Finwë, the most beautiful if not the fiercest or the brightest. And Alyafairë- or Finduilas, apparently- is Arafinwë come to life again, now that Makalaurë is looking for it.

“You don’t believe me,” says Finduilas.

“Would anyone?”

“If I could’ve chosen anyone to accompany me, it would not have been you,” says Finduilas, sounding breathlessly amused. “You know that back in my life- in my other life- you were very much one of my more favorite uncles.”

Makalaurë thinks about it. His mind feels a little like it’s cracking in two. “You married your  _ uncle,”  _ he says.

“It was not my idea,” says Finduilas. “It’s  _ not  _ my fault that Celegorm has two answers to a problem, and marriage is the only nonviolent one!”

“Oh dear,” says Makalaurë, unsure if he should laugh or not. “So you aren’t in love.”

“You were right about that from the beginning.”

“And now?” Makalaurë asks, and lifts his brows when Finduilas turns back to him, eyes bright. “Do you still remain stonehearted now, after all of these decades beside Tyelko?”

Finduilas frowns, thinking it over. “I have held his soul in my hands,” she says finally. “I have seen his griefs, Makalaurë, and his pains, and his joys; I have wept beside him, and for him, and though there are scars on my fëa that will match the curve of his blade- I will never forget his bravery, or his strength, or his resolve. It would take far harder a heart than mine to loathe him still.”

“Not loathing is not the same as love.”

“I have not been lucky in love,” says Finduilas, a little wryly. “Perhaps it’s for the better that I refrain from loving Celegorm.”

…

They fall into silence, but then, when they’ve almost surely passed across Anfauglith, Makalaurë asks, quietly, “Will he mourn you?” and Finduilas looks back at him, and the light is gold upon gold upon gold- her hair, her eyes, Arien’s lovely rays- and she says, “Not so deeply as you fear.”

…

Then she drapes a silver cloak, glittering as beautifully as Tyelkormo’s hair ever had under Telperien, over both of their shoulders, and she guides them through Angamando with silent, careful treads.

“Melian the Maia has a child with King Thingol,” she explains tersely, voice so low that even Makalaurë- close enough to feel her breath on his shoulders- can barely hear it. “Luthien Tinúviel, named for her song and her beauty. In my time, she sang both Sauron and Morgoth into submission.”

“Doriath let her leave for that?” asks Makalaurë.

“She wove a cloak of her own hair to escape Doriath,” murmurs Finduilas. “And that is what I have done. Only in place of the hair of a Maia, I have a cloak of your father’s thread. A thread to unmake the present; that is what I have used. We shall be safe under it, for however long it takes to escape Angamando.”

“And the gold is to see the future, is it not?”

“Yes,” says Finduilas. 

“It would’ve been better to use the silver to enchant Morgoth.”

“My weaving only has so much strength.” Finduilas shudders as they pass by a balrog, flaming so hot that blisters form beneath Makalaurë’s shirt. “Truly, Makalaurë. I have done the best I can. I must ask that you trust me.”

_ Trust,  _ thinks Makalaurë mockingly. 

But it’s fair enough; he’s trusted her enough to walk into Angamando without anything more than his smallest harp and a sword across his back. This shouldn’t be what breaks that trust.

“How do you know where we’re going?”

“My bond to Celegorm has not closed.”

“Oh,” says Makalaurë, and pales at the consequences of that statement.

Because it is not as if Angamando- or Sauron, or even Morgoth- have a way to close the soulbonds that happen with marriage. But anyone captured will close them of their own accord, simply due to the agony; or, if not, then their spouse will close it on their part, in order to continue their lives without the constant pain. There have been instances- as narrated by the Doriathrim- where surviving spouses have faded simply because they could not bear the silence of their marriage bond.

But Tyelkormo had refused to close it.

And so had Finduilas.

Despite the agony. Despite what must have been all of their instincts telling them otherwise, they’d kept the bond  _ open,  _ and it all feels…

Planned.

“Did you send him?” asks Makalaurë, a cold horror settling into his bones.

Finduilas pauses, for only the briefest of moments. “No,” she says. And then, softly, “He told me that he could not watch as Maedhros- Maitimo- walked into captivity again. Celegorm insisted that if it had to be anyone, it would be him. It’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s never loved pain,” whispers Makalaurë.

“He loves all of you,” says Finduilas. She pauses, nodding, and picks the lock of one of the dungeons before slipping inside. “And he is here.”

Makalaurë hurries with her to meet the shattered, shorn body sprawled across the floor. His hair has been hacked out in great big bunches, and his shirt is all but strips stuck to his skin from dried blood. It’s the leg that worries Makalaurë the most: it’s bent oddly, and looks to have set in that manner.

“You came,” croaks out Tyelkormo, and Makalaurë would weep if not for how desperately he must keep silent. “I- wasn’t- wasn’t sure if-”

_ “Not  _ a dream,” says Finduilas fiercely. She’s running her hands over his arms, and his neck, and though she avoids the clear wounds it’s obvious that she’s checking for further injuries. “It isn’t! I wouldn’t allow it. I swore to you, do you remember?”

“No… oaths.”

“As if oaths are the only manner of promises to be held,” she snaps. Then she looks up to Makalaurë, and gestures for him to approach closer. “We need to re-set his leg.”

“He’ll scream,” warns Makalaurë. “And I’m not certain if-”

“I’ll put the cloak on him. That should protect him even if…”

“But- a healer would-”

“We need him to walk,” says Finduilas. “Do you think he can do it on that leg?”

“I’ve never done it before! Neither have you!”

“We,” pants Tyelkormo, “we- we’ve practiced.”

Makalaurë stares. “On  _ each other?” _

“Did you think all of Celegorm’s hunts were without injury?” asks Finduilas, sounding grimly amused. “He used to pray to Orome for aid; now he sends for me, and I help. We’ve gotten better over time.”

“None of us knew!”

“I know.” She pats Tyelkormo on the shoulder, hands him a bloody rag of his own shirt to bite down on, and then, efficiently, starts to break Makalaurë’s brother’s bones.

…

But they don’t  _ leave  _ Angamando with Tyelkormo.

Apparently, Finduilas has never been taught to count her blessings. She instead leads them  _ down  _ through Angamando, where the heat is worse and the terror is cloying, and stops only at the throne room. For the barest of moments, she turns to look at them: a gold-haired statue, gilded like summer, beautiful and brighter than anything in this dimness. Then she slips out from under the cloak and walks in, head held high and shoulders thrown back.

She had called Tyelkormo brave, but this-  _ this-  _ is one of the most courageous things that Makalaurë has ever seen in his life.

“She’ll die,” he whispers.

_ I told her not to,  _ says Tyelkormo wearily.  _ But do you think she listens?  _

Finduilas simply walks in. Her hair is chopped badly, most of it burned off from Formenos, but the odd angles of it now seem to catch the faint flickers of fire of Angamando like the curves of an abstract statue. The simple dress is something that Makalaurë wouldn’t have ever been caught dead in, but it suits her. It is almost like Manwe himself is smiling down on her, setting her aglow.

“An elf in my domain,” says Morgoth, voice like a thunderous rockfall. “A free elf.”

Tyelkormo flinches at it, and Makalaurë is hard-pressed to keep the cloak covering them fully when his brother’s leg collapses under him. They both shrink further into the shadows, cursing under their breath, and it’s only after that when Makalaurë can look up and pay attention to Finduilas.

“-to stop you,” she says.

“Are you?” Morgoth laughs, horribly. “And how do you think you can do that, little elf-maid?”

Slowly, Finduilas loosens the greaves on her wrists. One of them is bare, but the other is wrapped in a golden thread that seems to buzz in Makalaurë’s teeth annoyingly. 

“You are the eldest and greatest of the Valar,” she says. “And it is from you and yours that we have learned how Eru Iluvatar sang the world into being. Eru sang, we Firstborn say, and from his song came all that is and ever will be. Therefore song is the first of the crafts. It is the foremost of the crafts.”

The golden thread falls off her wrist, but hovers in the air instead of falling to the ground.

Morgoth is frowning at her, but nobody is stopping her either.

“But we weavers know the truth,” says Finduilas softly. “For what is a song but a weave of sound? What is our world but a reality- a tapestry- woven and unwoven from beginning to end? Fëanor Míriellion knew this, and understood it. He knew that weaving is a power unlike any other.” Her hands extend, and the thread rises, coils into the air and wraps like a glitter of Artanis’ own hair. “Behold! A thread of Fëanáro’s own making! A thread to tell the future yet unseen!”

Whatever she says fades, then, drowned out by visions.

A falling kingdom, dark and underground; a black dragon, golden eyes like lamps; rolling plains of grass set afire; death like a shadow dogging their footsteps; despair a smothering blanket, with only the barest spears of hope to pierce it; stars rising in the west but offering only grief; the bitterness of triumph, ashen in his mouth; agony, and loneliness, and fear, and agony, and agony, and  _ agony- _

_ Pay attention, Kano. _

Makalaurë jerks at Tyelkormo’s shove, suddenly realizing that he’s making a low, awful whine from very low in his throat. 

_ I don’t understand- what  _ was  _ that? I felt like I could never breathe again. _

_ That was Finduilas’ life,  _ says Tyelkormo.  _ She wove that vision. The thread helps; it was a vision of partly Finduilas’ future and partly your own.  _

Makalaurë looks up, and chokes.

Morgoth is under a golden cloud. The strands are hovering in the air, high above them, and it looks like everyone inside is entranced by it- despairing at times, furious at others, hopeful at others; but caught in their own worlds. Not seeing anything but the future that Finduilas has woven for them.

And Finduilas has finished her weaving, for now she lifts her arms, trembling, and the cloud lowers to her feet, where she steps onto it. 

The strands flow like a liquid metal, forming a set of stairs on which Finduilas can walk: higher, and higher, and still higher, until she has reached the height of Morgoth’s skull. The closer she gets to him, the brighter his eyes shine: something of beauty and ugliness, entwined forever, that frightens Makalaurë just as much as it fascinates him.

Tyelkormo’s hand grips his shoulder hard, and Makalaurë drops out of his dizzying thoughts. 

_ This is the dangerous part. _

_ This!  _ says Makalaurë, barely managing to keep from shouting. Tyelkormo’s hand seems intent on grinding his shoulder to dust.  _ All of this has been- _

_ Kano,  _ says Tyelkormo, voice wobbling just enough that Makalaurë looks back up.

Looks up, to where Finduilas is delicately removing the iron crown set upon Morgoth’s brow.

_ Madness,  _ says Makalaurë.  _ This is madness! Utter and wild and- and- _

The crown comes off, and Morgoth does not even seem to notice. The golden shine of the room has not lessened even slightly. 

If anything, it increases when Finduilas holds the Silmarils.

Then she jumps off the golden ledge upon which she’s been standing, and lands on her feet, light as a cat, and grins back at Tyelkormo. It transforms her face; she looks like a lamp as tall as a statue, glowing from within.

_ Come,  _ she says.  _ We must leave swiftly. I’ve no idea how long the charm will last. _

Silently, Makalaurë helps her lift Tyelkormo to his feet, and they limp out of Angamando silently, as perfectly hidden as they’d been when they walked in.

…

They don’t stop until well past when even Makalaurë feels weary; Tyelkormo, surely, must be feeling worse! But he’s pulled up the hood of the cloak that Finduilas had woven- to protect from the bone-shattering rain- and Makalaurë cannot make out his face, and he doesn’t make a single sound of protest until they hear an unearthly roar from Angamando.

Finduilas’ breath punches out of her, and she staggers, but catches herself almost immediately and turns to Thangorodrim, shading her eyes to see beyond the trees.

“We must find shelter,” she says.

“Now?” asks Makalaurë.  _ “Now?  _ We’ll die if we try it! We must run as fast as we can!”

“And make ourselves visible?” asks Tyelkormo. His voice is strained, and Makalaurë subsides more because of that than anything else. “A prey must run only if it’s certain it can run faster than its attacker, and we are not faster than those bats.”

“We won’t be able to  _ hide  _ with the Silmarils,” hisses Makalaurë.

“Not in plain sight, certainly,” says Finduilas. “But in a cave? Or under some roots? It’s better than simply standing out here!”

It’s the best of a terrible set of choices, which Makalaurë must concede to even if he wants nothing more than to flee as quickly as his feet can carry him.

So they settle under the roots of a large tree, huddling together for warmth. Makalaurë hums a quiet song of healing, and the tense lines of Tyelkormo’s face fade into something more relaxed. 

_ If you ever do that again,  _ Makalaurë tells him, finally letting some of the anger out from under his skin,  _ I will hold you down while Nelyo flays you with his own hands. Do you understand? _

Tyelkormo lolls his head forward, dog-like.  _ I did what I had to do, Kano. We are better for Nelyo having not been captured, and you-! You would have fared the worse of all of us! _

_ Because I am a singer?  _ demands Makalaurë.  _ I could best you in a duel before you were injured, and you know it.  _

_ That would not have been a duel,  _ says Finduilas, and they both jerk guiltily to look at her. It’s rude to speak through osanwe and not include a third party, but- but this is his  _ brother;  _ what was Makalaurë to do? Sit quietly as he threw himself into Morgoth’s own hands?  _ It was torture, Makalaurë,  _ Finduilas continues.  _ And none of us could have held up to it better than Tyelkormo.  _

_ I couldn’t have done it without you,  _ he returns.

Makalaurë frowns.  _ What does that mean? _

_ Our bond was open,  _ Finduilas reminds him.  _ That meant… well. He could feel what I felt, if I concentrated hard enough.  _

_ We exchanged,  _ says Tyelkormo.  _ I lent her torture, and took the warmth of the bed. Yes, yes, I know! No need to look so horrified! I should’ve- _

_ -I made him swear,  _ says Finduilas impatiently.  _ I made him  _ swear,  _ that we would bear it all together or not at all. But there was no other way for me to weave that cloak: we tried it. The most powerful it ever got was when I wove for love, and I did not care enough for the Silmarils alone to weave a cloak of that power unless I was also weaving it to rescue my kin. _

_ That sounds impossible. _

_ It’s your father’s fault,  _ says Finduilas, laughing coldly.  _ He made this thread, and he did not bother to explain about it to me- I had to work it out for myself.  _ She smiles, thinly, at Tyelkormo.  _ I did the best I could. We both did. _

_ I’m the elder,  _ says Makalaurë firmly.  _ You should have come to me. _

_ You’re here now,  _ says Tyelkormo, and presses a hand down onto the joint of Makalaurë’s knee. His eyes are very bright.  _ That’s what matters. _

…

The next morning, they sneak down, taking care to erase evidence of their path. Tyelkormo is invaluable here; he sings not only to the birds, but to the stone, to the air, to the trees. Their presence is as good as gone.

And then, about an hour from the Noldor camp, Finduilas stops them.

There is something very small and weighted in her face: like a stone, cut to look like a faceted gem but still a little too dull.

Or perhaps it is just that there is a stone in Makalaurë’s belly, and he cannot remove it.

“Rest,” is all she says, as she guides Tyelkormo to a flat stone and sits on the forest floor beside him. Rests her head on his thigh; Finduilas’ eyes close just briefly, and then she opens them, and she straightens. “There is still power in this cloak, Celegorm.”

“Yes,” says Tyelkormo slowly, drawing the words out like strings of overcooked caramel, burned and bitter. “There is.”

“I’m  _ tired,”  _ says Finduilas, tilting her head up to look at him. “I am tired. Down to the dregs of my soul. You can feel it.”

“Finduilas,” murmurs Tyelkormo, one hand whitening on his own knee, gripping tight enough to look like it will hurt. Makalaurë breathes in, sharply, but doesn’t speak. This is a discussion for the two of them; he can sense that much, at least. “Just because you are tired doesn’t mean that you cannot stay.”

“I don’t wish to stay,” she replies softly. “I’ve done the best I can. Don’t you see? I don’t  _ want  _ to be the person who wounded Morgoth, or the person who led armies against him, or the person who rescued your Silmarils. Anyone could have done it if they were trained in weaving! I was just the most obvious person around for Vaire to lend me the thread.” She breaks off, and bends forward to rest her forehead against Tyelkormo’s thigh once more. “And I don’t want to- to be that girl once more.”

“What girl?”

“When we returned,” says Finduilas haltingly, before starting again. “When we returned, I came back in my body- scarless, as I remembered it at the height of Nargothrond’s power. But you came back into your old body. The one from Tirion.”

“That’s… true.”

“My father will meet my mother soon enough, now that he’s in Beleriand. And he’ll have me, and then- then I’ll be a  _ child  _ once more, and I cannot bear that. I want- I want to have joy in my life, Celegorm, I want to love Gwindor without weeping for his scars, and I want to have a child that I can love without wondering about their future, and I want to be able to look at my father without wishing to throttle him, and I cannot do that as I am! I cannot!”

“So your answer is to walk away?” demands Tyelkormo. “To run away? That’s utter nonsense!”

“It’s the truth,” she snaps. “There is power here, in this cloak. To unmake the present. To unmake our presence.”

Tyelkormo goes very, very still. “Our?”

Finduilas pales. “Only if you wish it.”

“So- what? I killed my young self, is that what you’re saying?” Tyelkormo is starting to look angry. “When you brought me back- against my will- you killed me! You killed-”

“-your fëa didn’t have the Oath on it- I assumed that you were- I don’t  _ know  _ if-”

Tyelkormo pulls away sharply, and Finduilas lets him, hunching in on herself. “I never knew you to be so selfish,” he accuses.

“The hardest task of a weaver,” says Finduilas, so gently it barely makes any sound, “is to know when a tapestry is finished.”

_ “No,”  _ snarls Tyelkormo. “This is not finished! This is barely begun, damn you!”

She gets to her feet. “I love you,” she whispers. “I could not have done this without you. But I want something  _ more  _ than this. Decades alone- decades grieving- I am  _ tired,  _ Celegorm, I am so tired, I am so hurt and so angry and I have spent these years telling myself that it will end soon, and I cannot bear it if the end means more  _ battles!” _

For a very long time, Tyelkormo does not speak. None of them speak; they watch the sun set, and then Finduilas passes Makalaurë some bread, and still Tyelkormo does not react.

It is the stillest that Makalaurë has ever seen his brother.

It’s a few hours before dawn- the sky is so dark as to be lightless- that he finally stirs.

“You were not made for war,” he says.

Finduilas closes her eyes, relief spreading over it like a balm. “I was not.”

“I was.”

“I would not ask you to come with me,” she says quietly, “if you would not wish it.”

Tyelkormo glances up, at Makalaurë, who’s been trying very hard to melt into the tree at his back for the past hours.

“You knew something,” he says.

Makalaurë grimaces. “Something! But not much. I thought that Finduilas would die there, in Morgoth’s lair. Not… this.” He frowns at her. “Do you even know what unmaking you will do?”

“If I walk into darkness,” says Finduilas steadily, “I do it knowing the light I hold within.”

“I will miss you,” Makalaurë tells her, and she laughs, so sweetly their little part of forest seems to shine brighter, and replies: “Do not lie to me  _ now,  _ Makalaurë!”

“Not a lie,” he insists. “I knew there was something that you were hiding. I knew that you were a danger to my brother. But… I was once your favorite uncle, was I not? Things can change very quickly when given a new perspective.”

“One of my favorite uncles,” corrects Finduilas. “Angrod was always a better uncle, but then he was closer; you only came rarely to Minas Tirith.”

“But who gave the better toys?”

“Uncle Angrod always made me build my own,” says Finduilas, and laughs again. “So in that, at least, your only competition is Fingon!”

“Not Curvo or me, I see,” says Tyelkormo. 

Finduilas rolls her eyes. “Yes, because I was interested in some gem-encrusted thing so delicate it stopped working after dropping it once! I was never so careful as Celebrimbor, and all  _ your  _ gifts shedded hair everywhere, which was more work than I ever cared for.”

“I would not see you die,” says Makalaurë, unable to help himself. “Finduilas. Alyafairë. You  _ are  _ a hero to me, to us; you need not do anything you don’t wish for now. We would aid you in it all.”

Very slowly, Finduilas nods, levity fading from her face into something cold and lovely as the icy moon. “I ask for only this, brother.” The faintest flash of humor. “Uncle. Only this.”

“Then I will not stop you.” 

Makalaurë steps aside, and turns to Tyelkormo, waiting. The starlight dusts his face: Tyelkormo’s hair is always silver, but now it looks like a thing of light itself, unearthly and not half so ugly as they might have feared from Morgoth’s shearing.

“You gave me my life back,” he says hoarsely. “I would not stop you from anything. You know that.”

“I know,” says Finduilas, smiling sadly. 

Tyelkormo hands her the cloak, and she takes it, handing over her own for warmth. Before she clasps it over her throat, however, Finduilas pauses.

“I would ask for one thing of you,” she says to Tyelkormo. 

“Anything.”

“Watch over me. The- younger me. It is a softer world that she will be born in, but- there is grief here, still, in Arda marred. Watch over her.”

“Always,” says Tyelkormo. His jaw is clenched hard, and his eyes are very bright.  _ “Always.” _

“No spits and no spears,” murmurs Finduilas. “No jewels, and no treason, and no kinslaying.”

“Just… us.”

“Just enough.”

Tyelkormo shudders, and Finduilas steps forwards, and they embrace, hard and desperate. Both of them are weeping; Makalaurë can see that there are tears streaming down Tyelkormo’s face, and Finduilas is trembling like she’s crying too.

“I will grieve,” he says.

“You were wrong,” he says, because he cannot keep quiet, he  _ cannot.  _ Finduilas turns to look at him, flinching, and Makalaurë steps forwards, so he’s holding her elbow, so she can see how deeply he believes his words. “It was not simply because you were a weaver that you accomplished this. Ai, Finduilas! You said that Tyelko walking into Angamando was bravery beyond compare, but what of you? Plucking Morgoth’s own iron crown from his brow? There is courage there, too, and not the kind that is seen in lesser elves!” Makalaurë lets go of her and steps back, breathing heavily. “It is not only we who will grieve your loss. The world shall mourn as well, for the dimming of a light so bright.”

“I will not be gone,” replies Finduilas, but there is a deep gratitude in her face that makes Makalaurë feel like he’s swallowed cold water after a hot morning. “Look for me in the storm; in the light after a storm. Look for me in the wind and the stars, and the glitter of a shining tapestry. I will be  _ there.  _ I will not be gone. And you shall have the young Finduilas to care for as well.”

“She will not be  _ you,”  _ says Tyelkormo.

“You are not yourself as you were, either.”

“No,” says Tyelkormo, and bows his head, and then, slowly, stiffly, like it hurts him- because it  _ does  _ hurt him- he steps away.

Finduilas presses a kiss to her fingers, and then those fingers to Tyelkormo’s wrist. 

“Thank you,” she says, and steps away as well, so there is one foot between them, and then two, and then three. 

She pins the cloak closed as she hasn’t done since Makalaurë saw it- even when she threw it over their bodies in Angamando, the clasp had simply hung loose. The hood is deep and dark, and though the cloak itself shines like Tilion itself, the features of her face are no longer obvious.

“Goodbye,” she says, but her voice sounds different now, deeper, somehow, and colder, and older, too.

Nothing  _ happens.  _ Nothing obvious. It’s almost like the darkness of the night steals over her, a trick of moonlight and shining stars and the spaces between stars. Tears blur Makalaurë’s eyes, and when they resolve there is nothing before them but an empty forest.

Tyelkormo makes a choked, desperate sound.

Makalaurë catches him before he can collapse, and they sit there, on the forest floor, for a long time. Until Makalaurë can feel the warmth of Arien’s rays on his neck. Until Tyelkormo stops shaking, and they can both stand without gasping.

_ We should go,  _ he says.

Makalaurë nods, and helps him up. They make their way back to the camp. It isn’t far- Makalaurë could open his bond, and let their brothers know that they’re safe- but for some reason he doesn’t. Just keeps Tyelkormo’s arm around his own shoulders, one hand on his sword, the other on the bag currently holding Morgoth’s iron crown.

Just before they emerge into view, Makalaurë hauls Tyelkormo up a little higher. “Tyelko,” he murmurs, and barely waits for his brother’s response before speaking. “If you need space, let me know. I’ll keep- Curvo, and Pityo, and any others away.”

“Like they’d listen,” mumbles Tyelkormo.

“Oh,” says Makalaurë, patting the bag rather smugly, “they  _ will.” _

Tyelkormo swallows, hard, at that, looking so desolate and white-faced that Makalaurë panics.

“Do you think she knew?”

“Knew what?” asks Tyelkormo slowly, sounding like he’s dredging up the words from somewhere deep within him.

“That- well- she just gave you permission.” Makalaurë hesitates, wondering if he should finish the statement, but… Tyelkormo deserves it. “To take over her life. The younger Finduilas’ life.”

Tyelkormo stares at him, silver eyes as perfectly round as the moon at its brightest. “No,” he breathes. Then he laughs, so loudly the sentries from within the camp start to call for back-up. “Oh, Valar, I hadn’t thought of  _ that,  _ had I! Well.” He frowns. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Ahead of ourselves?” hisses Makalaurë, trying to haul Tyelkormo backwards, out of range of any arrows. He’s got enough injuries not to deal with more holes in his body. “I’ve seen you with Tyelpe. You would’ve smothered the poor boy if Curvo let you, and now she’s  _ asked  _ you for help.” Makalaurë shudders. “Eru help her parents. And her suitors!”

“As if Eru can help them now,” says Tyelkormo easily. “But that isn’t what I meant, Kano. I love children, you’re right about that, but there need to  _ be  _ children to love, yes? She’ll have to be born for me to worry about caring for her.”

Makalaurë drops Tyelkormo’s arm and steps away to stare at him. “What are you planning, then? I’m telling you right now that if you want to convince Artaresto to have children, I’m not helping!”

“It isn’t just having children,” says Tyelkormo thoughtfully. “He’ll need a wife first.”

_ “Please _ don’t tell me that you’re going to be invested in Artaresto’s romances.”

“This time,” says Tyelkormo, smiling a smile full of teeth-  _ “this time, _ I’m going to be the favorite uncle.”

_ I hate you,  _ snarls Makalaurë, even as the camp opens its gates and their brothers ride out to welcome them.  _ I hate you so much! _

_ I’ll have to accompany Arto to Minas Tirith to ensure he picks the right elleth, won’t I? _

_ You are the worst matchmaker in the history of matchmakers!  _ exclaims Makalaurë.

“Then I’ll need help, won’t I?” says Tyelkormo smugly.

Makalaurë would punch him if not for the fact that his brother has too many bruises already. He copes, instead, by shoving his pack at Maitimo and stomping off inside the camp, scowling hard enough to make rainclouds hover on the horizon.


End file.
